JEAN-CHRISTOPHL 
^*jfa  IN  PARIS  to 

*     »f  J^     T11E  MARKET  PLACE     ; 
JU.W  ANTOINETTE* THE  HOUSE 


ROMAIN   ROLLAND 


,          'I 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Dr.   Blanche  C.   Brown 


JEAN  -  CHRISTOPHE 

DAWN       •       MORNING 
YOUTH        •       REVOLT 

By  ROMAIN  HOLLAND 
TRANSLATED  BY  GILBERT  CANNAN 

600  pages  ;  $1.50  net 
9 

The  first  four  volumes  of  the  French 
edition  are  comprised  in  this  translation 

"A  book  as  big,  as  elemental,  as  original, 
as  though  the  art  of  fiction  began  to-day." 
Springfield  It* publican. 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 
IN  PARIS 

THE  MARKET-PLACE 
ANTOINETTE     +     THE   HOUSE 

BY 
ROMAIN    HOLLAND 


Translated  by 
GILBERT    CANNAN 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1911, 

BY 

HENKY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


Published  October,  1911 


THE  OUINN  «  BODEN  CO.  PRESS 
RAHWAY,  N.  J. 


College 
Library 


-  2- 
2. 


CONTENTS 

PAGH 

THE  MAEKET-PLACE 3 

ANTOINETTE 197 

THE  HOUSE  301 


762685 


THE   MAEKET-PLACE 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 


DISORDER  in  order.  Untidy  officials  offhanded  in  manner. 
Travelers  protesting  against  the  rules  and  regulations,  to  which 
they  submitted  all  the  same.  Christophe  was  in  France. 

After  having  satisfied  the  curiosity  of  the  customs,  he  took 
his  seat  again  in  the  train  for  Paris.  Night  was  over  the  fields 
that  were  soaked  with  the  rain.  The  hard  lights  of  the  sta- 
tions accentuated  the  sadness  of  the  interminable  plain  buried 
in  darkness.  The  trains,  more  and  more  numerous,  that  passed, 
rent  the  air  with  their  shrieking  whistles,  which  broke  upon 
the  torpor  of  the  sleeping  passengers.  The  train  was  nearing 
Paris. 

Christophe  was  ready  to  get  out  an  hour  before  they  ran 
in;  he  had  jammed  his  hat  down  on  his  head;  he  had  buttoned 
his  coat  up  to  his  neck  for  fear  of  the  robbers,  with  whom 
he  had  been  told  Paris  was  infested;  twenty  times  he  had 
got  up  and  sat  down;  twenty  times  he  had  moved  his  bag 
from  the  rack  to  the  seat,  from  the  seat  to  the  rack,  to  the 
exasperation  of  his  fellow-passengers,  against  whom  he  knocked 
every  time  with  his  usual  clumsiness. 

Just  as  they  were  about  to  run  into  the  station  the  train 
suddenly  stopped  in  the  darkness.  Christophe  flattened  his 
nose  against  the  window  and  tried  vainly  to  look  out.  He 
turned  towards  his  fellow-travelers,  hoping  to  find  a  friendly 
glance  which  would  encourage  him  to  ask  where  they  were. 
But  they  were  all  asleep  or  pretending  to  be  so:  they  were 
bored  and  scowling:  not  one  of  them  made  any  attempt  to 

3 


4  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

discover  why  they  had  stopped.  Christophe  was  surprised  by 
their  indifference:  these  stiff,  somnolent  creatures  were  so  ut- 
terly unlike  the  French  of  his  imagination!  At  last  he  sat 
down,  discouraged,  on  his  bag,  rocking  with  every  jolt  of  the 
train,  and  in  his  turn  he  was  just  dozing  off  when  he  was 
roused  by  the  noise  of  the  doors  being  opened.  .  .  .  Paris! 
.  .  .  His  fellow-travelers  were  already  getting  out. 

Jostling  and  jostled,  he  walked  towards  the  exit  of  the  sta- 
tion, refusing  the  porter  who  offered  to  carry  his  bag.  With 
a  peasant's  suspiciousness  he  thought  every  one  was  going  to 
rob  him.  He  lifted  his  precious  bag  on  to  his  shoulder  and 
walked  straight  ahead,  indifferent  to  the  curses  of  the  people 
as  he  forced  his  way  through  them.  At  last  he  found  himself 
in  the  greasy  streets  of  Paris. 

He  was  too  much  taken  up  with  the  business  in  hand,  the 
finding  of  lodgings,  and  too  weary  of  the  whirl  of  carriages 
into  which  he  was  swept,  to  think  of  looking  at  anything.  The 
first  thing  was  to  look  for  a  room.  There  was  no  lack  of 
hotels:  the  station  was  surrounded  with  them  on  all  sides: 
their  names  were  flaring  in  gas  letters.  Christophe  wanted  to 
find  a  less  dazzling  place  than  any  of  these:  none  of  them 
seemed  to  him  to  be  humble  enough  for  his  purse.  At  last 
in  a  side  street  he  saw  a  dirty  inn  with  a  cheap  eating-house 
on  the  ground  floor.  It  was  called  Hotel  de  la  Civilisation. 
A  fat  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  was  sitting  smoking  at  a  table: 
he  hurried  forward  as  he  saw  Christophe  enter.  He  could  not 
understand  a  word  of  his  jargon:  but  at  the  first  glance  he 
marked  and  judged  the  awkward  childish  German,  who  re- 
fused to  let  his  bag  out  of  his  hands,  and  struggled  hard  to 
make  himself  understood  in  an  incredible  language.  He  took 
him  up  an  evil-smelling  staircase  to  an  airless  room  which 
opened  on  to  a  closed  court.  He  vaunted  the  quietness  of 
the  room,  to  which  no  noise  from  outside  could  penetrate:  and 
he  asked  a  good  price  for  it.  Christophe  only  half  understood 
him;  knowing  nothing  of  the  conditions  of  life  in  Paris,  and 
with  his  shoulder  aching  with  the  weight  of  his  bag,  he  ac- 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  5 

cepted  everything:  he  was  eager  to  be  alone.  But  hardly  was 
he  left  alone  when  he  was  struck  by  the  dirtiness  of  it  all :  and 
to  avoid  succumbing  to  the  melancholy  which  was  creeping 
over  him,  he  went  out  again  very  soon  after  having  dipped 
his  face  in  the  dusty  water,  which  was  greasy  to  the  touch. 
He  tried  hard  not  to  see  and  not  to  feel,  so  as  to  escape 
disgust. 

He  went  down  into  the  street.  The  October  mist  was  thick 
and  keenly  cold:  it  had  that  stale  Parisian  smell,  in  which 
are  mingled  the  exhalations  of  the  factories  of  the  outskirts 
and  the  heavy  breath  of  the  town.  He  could  not  see  ten  yards 
in  front  of  him.  The  light  of  the  gas-jets  flickered  like  a 
candle  on  the  point  of  going  out.  In  the  semi-darkness  there 
were  crowds  of  people  moving  in  all  directions.  Carriages 
moved  in  front  of  each  other,  collided,  obstructed  the  road, 
stemming  the  flood  of  people  like  a  dam.  The  oaths  of  the 
drivers,  the  horns  and  bells  of  the  trams,  made  a  deafening 
noise.  The  roar,  the  clamor,  the  smell  of  it  all,  struck  fearfully 
on  the  mind  and  heart  of  Christophe.  He  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  was  at  once  swept  on  by  the  people  behind  him  and 
borne  on  by  the  current.  He  went  down  the  Boulevard  de 
Strasbourg,  seeing  nothing,  bumping  awkwardly  into  the 
passers-by.  He  had  eaten  nothing  since  morning.  The  cafes, 
which  he  found  at  every  turn,  abashed  and  revolted  him,  for 
they  were  all  so  crowded.  He  applied  to  a  policeman;  but 
he  was  so  slow  in  finding  words  that  the  man  did  not  even 
take  the  trouble  to  hear  him  out,  and  turned  his  back  on  him 
in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He 
went  on  walking  mechanically.  There  was  a  small  crowd  in 
front  of  a  shop-window.  He  stopped  mechanically.  It  was  a 
photograph  and  picture-postcard  shop:  there  were  pictures  of 
girls  in  chemises,  or  without  them :  illustrated  papers  displayed 
obscene  jests.  Children  and  young  girls  were  looking  at  them 
calmly.  There  was  a  slim  girl  with  red  hair  who  saw  Chris- 
tophe lost  in  contemplation  and  accosted  him.  He  looked  at  her 
and  did  not  understand.  She  took  his  arm  with  a  silly  smile, 


6  JEAtf-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

He  shook  her  off,  and  rushed  away,  blushing  angrily.  There 
were  rows  of  cafe  concerts:  outside  the  doors  were  displayed 
grotesque  pictures  of  the  comedians.  The  crowd  grew  thicker 
and  thicker.  Christophe  was  struck  by  the  number  of  vicious 
faces,  prowling  rascals,  vile  beggars,  painted  women  sickeningly 
scented.  He  was  frozen  by  it  all.  Weariness,  weakness,  and 
the  horrible  feeling  of  nausea,  which  more  and  more  came  over 
him,  turned  him  sick  and  giddy.  He  set  his  teeth  and  walked 
on  more  quickly.  The  fog  grew  denser  as  he  approached  the 
Seine.  The  whirl  of  carriages  became  bewildering.  A  horse 
slipped  and  fell  on  its  side:  the  driver  flogged  it  to  make  it 
get  up :  the  wretched  beast,  held  down  by  its  harness,  struggled 
and  fell  down  again,  and  lay  still  as  though  it  were  dead.  The 
sight  of  it — common  enough — was  the  last  drop  that  made  the 
wretchedness  that  filled  the  soul  of  Christophe  flow  over.  The 
miserable  struggles  of  the  poor  beast,  surrounded  by  indifferent 
and  careless  faces,  made  him  feel  bitterly  his  own  insignificance 
among  these  thousands  of  men  and  women — the  feeling  of 
revulsion,  which  for  the  last  hour  had  been  choking  him,  his 
disgust  with  all  these  human  beasts,  with  the  unclean  atmos- 
phere, with  the  morally  repugnant  people,  burst  forth  in  him 
with  such  violence  that  he  could  not  breathe.  He  burst  into 
tears.  The  passers-by  looked  in  amazement  at  the  tall  young 
man  whose  face  was  twisted  with  grief.  He  strode  along  with 
the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks,  and  made  no  attempt  to 
dry  them.  People  stopped  to  look  at  him  for  a  moment:  and 
if  he  had  been  able  to  read  the  soul  of  the  mob,  which  seemed  to 
him  to  be  so  hostile,  perhaps  in  some  of  them  he  might  have 
seen — mingled,  no  doubt,  with  a  little  of  the  ironic  feeling  of 
the  Parisians  for  any  sorrow  so  simple  and  ridiculous  as  to  show 
itself — pity  and  brotherhood.  But  he  saw  nothing:  his  tears 
blinded  him. 

He  found  himself  in  a  square,  near  a  large  fountain.  He 
bathed  his  hands  and  dipped  his  face  in  it.  A  little  news- 
vendor  watched  him  curiously  and  passed  comment  on  him, 
waggishly  though  not  maliciously:  and  he  picked  up  his  hat 


THE  MAKKET-PLACE  7 

for  him — Christophe  had  let  it  fall.  The  icy  coldness  of  the 
water  revived  Christophe.  He  plucked  up  courage  again.  He 
retraced  his  steps,  but  did  not  look  about  him :  he  did  not  even 
think  of  eating :  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  speak 
to  anybody:  it  needed  the  merest  trifle  to  set  him  off  weeping 
again.  He  was  worn  out.  He  lost  his  way,  and  wandered 
about  aimlessly  until  he  found  himself  in  front  of  his  hotel, 
just  when  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  was  lost.  He 
had  forgotten  even  the  name  of  the  street  in  which  he 
lodged. 

He  went  up  to  his  horrible  room.  He  was  empty,  and  his 
eyes  were  burning:  he  was  aching  body  and  soul  as  he  sank 
down  into  a  chair  in  the  corner  of  the  room:  he  stayed  like 
that  for  a  couple  of  hours  and  could  not  stir.  At  last  he 
wrenched  himself  out  of  his  apathy  and  went  to  bed.  He  fell 
into  a  fevered  slumber,  from  which  he  awoke  every  few  minutes, 
feeling  that  he  had  been  asleep  for  hours.  The  room  was 
stifling:  he  was  burning  from  head  to  foot:  he  was  horribly 
thirsty:  he  suffered  from  ridiculous  nightmares,  which  clung 
to  him  even  after  he  had  opened  his  eyes :  sharp  pains  thudded 
in  him  like  the  blows  of  a  hammer.  In  the  middle  of  the 
night  he  awoke,  overwhelmed  by  despair,  so  profound  that  he 
all  but  cried  out:  he  stuffed  the  bedclothes  into  his  mouth 
BO  as  not  to  be  heard:  he  felt  that  he  was  going  mad.  He  sat 
up  in  bed,  and  struck  a  light.  He  was  bathed  in  sweat.  He 
got  up,  opened  his  bag  to  look  for  a  handkerchief.  He  laid 
his  hand  on  an  old  Bible,  which  his  mother  had  hidden  in  his 
linen.  Christophe  had  never  read  much  of  the  Book:  but  it 
was  a  comfort  beyond  words  for  him  to  find  it  at  that  moment. 
The  Bible  had  belonged  to  his  grandfather  and  to  his  grand- 
father's father.  The  heads  of  the  family  had  inscribed  on  a 
blank  page  at  the  end  their  names  and  the  important  dates 
of  their  lives — births,  marriages,  deaths.  His  grandfather  had 
written  in  pencil,  in  his  large  hand,  the  dates  when  he  had 
read  and  re-read  each  chapter:  the  Book  was  full  of  tags  of 
yellowed  paper,  on  which  the  old  man  had  jotted  down  his 


8  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

simple  thoughts.  The  Book  used  to  rest  on  a  shelf  above  his 
bed,  and  he  used  often  to  take  it  down  during  the  long,  sleep- 
less nights  and  hold  converse  with  it  rather  than  read  it.  It 
had  been  with  him  to  the  hour  of  his  death,  as  it  had  been 
with  his  father.  A  century  of  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the 
family  was  breathed  forth  from  the  pages  of  the  Book.  Hold- 
ing it  in  his  hands,  Christophe  felt  less  lonely. 

He  opened  it  at  the  most  somber  words  of  all : 

Is  there  not  an  appointed  time  to  man  upon  earth?  Are  not 
his  days  also  like  the  days  of  an  hireling  ? 

When  I  lie  down,  I  say,  When  shall  I  arise  and  the  night  be 
gone?  and  I  am  full  of  tossings  to  and  fro  unto  the  dawn  of 
the  day. 

When  I  say,  My  bed  shall  comfort  me,  my  couch  shall  ease  my 
complaint,  then  Thou  searest  me  with  dreams  and  terrifiest  me 
through  visions.  .  .  .  How  long  wilt  Thou  not  depart  from 
me,  nor  let  me  alone  till  I  swallow  down  my  spittle?  I  have 
sinned;  what  shall  I  do  unto  Thee,  0  Thou  preserver  of  men? 

Though  He  slay  me  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him. 

All  greatness  is  good,  and  the  height  of  sorrow  tops  deliv- 
erance. What  casts  down  and  overwhelms  and  blasts  the  soul 
beyond  all  hope  is  mediocrity  in  sorrow  and  joy,  selfish  and 
niggardly  suffering  that  has  not  the  strength  to  be  rid  of  the 
lost  pleasure,  and  in  secret  lends  itself  to  every  sort  of  degrada- 
tion to  steal  pleasure  anew.  Christophe  was  braced  up  by  the 
bitter  savor  that  he  found  in  the  old  Book:  the  wind  of  Sinai 
coming  from  vast  and  lonely  spaces  and  the  mighty  sea  to 
sweep  away  the  steamy  vapors.  The  fever  in  Christophe  sub- 
sided. He  was  calm  again,  and  lay  down  and  slept  peacefully 
until  the  morrow.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  again  it  was  day. 
More  acutely  than  ever  he  was  conscious  of  the  horror  of  his 
room:  he  felt  his  loneliness  and  wretchedness:  but  he  faced 
them.  He  was  no  longer  disheartened:  he  was  left  only  with 
a  sturdy  melancholy.  He  read  over  now  the  words  of  Job: 

Even  though  God  slay  me  yet  would  I  trust  in  Him. 

He  got  up.    He  was  ready  calmly  to  face  the  fight. 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  9 

He  made  up  his  mind  there  and  then  to  set  to  work.  He 
knew  only  two  people  in  Paris:  two  young  fellow-countrymen: 
his  old  friend  Otto  Diener,  who  was  in  the  office  of  his  uncle, 
a  cloth  merchant  in  the  Mail  quarter:  and  a  young  Jew  from 
Mainz,  Sylvain  Kohn,  who  had  a  post  in  a  great  publishing 
house,  the  address  of  which  Christophe  did  not  know. 

He  had  been  very  intimate  with  Diener  when  he  was  four- 
teen or  fifteen.  He  had  had  for  him  one  of  those  childish 
friendships  which  precede  love,  and  are  themselves  a  sort  of 
love.1  Diener  had  loved  him  too.  The  shy,  reserved  boy  had 
been  attracted  by  Christophe's  gusty  independence :  he  had  tried 
hard  to  imitate  him,  quite  ridiculously:  that  had  both  irritated 
and  flattered  Christophe.  Then  they  had  made  plans  for  the 
overturning  of  the  world.  In  the  end  Diener  had  gone  abroad 
for  his  education  in  business,  and  they  did  not  see  each  other 
again:  but  Christophe  had  news  of  him  from  time  to  time 
from  the  people  in  the  town  with  whom  Diener  remained  on 
friendly  terms. 

As  for  Sylvain  Kohn,  his  relation  with  Christophe  had  been 
of  another  kind  altogether.  They  had  been  at  school  to- 
gether, where  the  young  monkey  had  played  many  pranks  on 
Christophe,  who  thrashed  him  for  it  when  he  saw  the  trap  into 
which  he  had  fallen.  Kohn  did  not  put  up  a  fight:  he  let 
Christophe  knock  him  down  and  rub  his  face  in  the  dust, 
while  he  howled;  but  he  would  begin  again  at  once  with  a 
malice  that  never  tired — until  the  day  when  he  became  really 
afraid,  Christophe  having  seriously  threatened  to  kill  him. 

Christophe  went  out  early.  He  stopped  to  breakfast  at  a  cafe. 
In  spite  of  his  self-consciousness,  he  forced  himself  to  lose 
no  opportunity  of  speaking  French.  Since  he  had  to  live  in 
Paris,  perhaps  for  years,  he  had  better  adapt  himself  as  quickly 
as  possible  to  the  conditions  of  life  there,  and  overcome  his 
repugnance.  So  he  forced  himself,  although  he  suffered  hor- 
ribly, to  take  no  notice  of  the  sly  looks  of  the  waiter  as  he 
listened  to  his  horrible  lingo.  He  was  not  discouraged,  and 
Jean-Chri8tophe—l:  "  The  Morning." 


10  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

went  on  obstinately  constructing  ponderous,  formless  sentences 
and  repeating  them  until  he  was  understood. 

He  set  out  to  look  for  Diener.  As  usual,  when  he  had  an 
idea  in  his  head,  he  saw  nothing  of  what  was  going  on  about 
him.  During  that  first  walk  his  only  impression  of  Paris 
was  that  of  an  old  and  ill-kept  town.  Christophe  was  accus- 
tomed to  the  towns  of  the  new  German  Empire,  that  were 
both  very  old  and  very  young,  towns  in  which  there  is  ex- 
pressed a  new  birth  of  pride:  and  he  was  unpleasantly  sur- 
prised by  the  shabby  streets,  the  muddy  roads,  the  hustling 
people,  the  confused  traffic- — vehicles  of  every  sort  and  shape: 
venerable  horse  omnibuses,  steam  trams,  electric  trams,  all  sorts 
of  trams — booths  on  the  pavements,  merry-go-rounds  of  wooden 
horses  (or  monsters  and  gargoyles)  in  the  squares  that  were 
choked  up  with  statues  of  gentlemen  in  frock-coats :  all  sorts  of 
relics  of  a  town  of  the  Middle  Ages  endowed  with  the  privilege 
of  universal  suffrage,  but  quite  incapable  of  breaking  free  from 
its  old  vagabond  existence.  The  fog  of  the  preceding  day  had 
turned  to  a  light,  soaking  rain.  In  many  of  the  shops  the  gas 
was  lit,  although  it  was  past  ten  o'clock. 

Christophe  lost  his  way  in  the  labyrinth  of  streets  round 
the  Place  des  Victoires,  but  eventually  found  the  shop  he  was 
looking  for  in  the  Rue  de  la  Banque.  As  he  entered  he  thought 
he  saw  Diener  at  the  back  of  the  long,  dark  shop,  arranging 
packages  of  goods,  together  with  some  of  the  assistants.  But 
he  was  a  little  short-sighted,  and  could  not  trust  his  eyes,  al- 
though it  was  very  rarely  that  they  deceived  him.  There  was 
a  general  movement  among  the  people  at  the  back  of  the  shop 
when  Christophe  gave  his  name  to  the  clerk  who  approached 
him:  and  after  a  confabulation  a  young  man  stepped  forward 
from  the  group,  and  said  in  German : 

"  Herr  Diener  is  out." 

"Out?     For  long?" 

"  I  think  so.     He  has  just  gone." 

Christophe  thought  for  a  moment ;  then  he  said : 

"  Very  well.    I  will  wait." 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  11 

The  clerk  was  taken  aback,  and  hastened  to  add : 

"  But  he  won't  be  back  before  two  or  three." 

"Oh!  That's  nothing,"  replied  Christophe  calmly.  "I 
haven't  anything  to  do  in  Paris.  I  can  wait  all  day  if  need  be." 

The  young  man  looked  at  him  in  amazement,  and  thought 
he  was  joking.  But  Christophe  had  forgotten  him  already. 
He  sat  down  quietly  in  a  corner,  with  his  back  turned  towards 
the  street:  and  it  looked  as  though  he  intended  to  stay  there. 

The  clerk  went  back  to  the  end  of  the  shop  and  whispered 
to  his  colleagues:  they  were  most  comically  distressed,  and  cast 
about  for  some  means  of  getting  rid  of  the  insistent  Christophe. 

After  a  few  uneasy  moments,  the  door  of  the  office  was 
opened  and  Herr  Diener  appeared.  He  had  a  large  red  face, 
marked  with  a  purple  scar  down  his  cheek  and  chin,  a  fair 
mustache,  smooth  hair,  parted  on  one  side,  a  gold-rimmed  eye- 
glass, gold  studs  in  his  shirt-front,  and  rings  on  his  fat  fingers. 
He  had  his  hat  and  an  umbrella  in  his  hands.  He  came  up  to 
Christophe  in  a  nonchalant  manner.  Christophe,  who  was 
dreaming  as  he  sat,  started  with  surprise.  He  seized  Diener's 
hands,  and  shouted  with  a  noisy  heartiness  that  made  the  as- 
sistants titter  and  Diener  blush.  That  majestic  personage  had 
his  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  resume  his  former  relationship 
with  Christophe:  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  from  the  first 
to  keep  him  at  a  distance  by  a  haughty  manner.  But  he  had 
no  sooner  come  face  to  face  with  Christophe  than  he  felt  like 
a  little  boy  again  in  his  presence :  he  was  furious  and  ashamed. 
He  muttered  hurriedly: 

"In  my  office.  ...  We  shall  be  able  to  talk  better 
there." 

Christophe  recognized  Diener's  habitual  prudence. 

But  when  they  were  in  the  office  and  the  door  was  shut, 
Diener  showed  no  eagerness  to  offer  him  a  chair.  He  remained 
standing,  making  clumsy  explanations: 

"  Very  glad.  ...  I  was  just  going  out They 

thought  I  had  gone.  .  .  .  But  I  must  go  ...  I  have  only 
a  minute  ...  a  pressing  appointment.  ..." 


12  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

Christophe  understood  that  the  clerk  had  lied  to  him,  and 
that  the  lie  had  been  arranged  by  Diener  to  get  rid  of  him. 
His  blood  boiled :  but  he  controlled  himself,  and  said  dryly : 

"  There  is  no  hurry." 

Diener  drew  himself  up.  He  was  shocked  by  such  off- 
handedness. 

"  What  I"  he  said.  "No  hurry!  In  business  ..."  Chris- 
tophe looked  him  in  the  face. 

"  No." 

Diener  looked  away.  He  hated  Christophe  for  having  so 
put  him  to  shame.  He  murmured  irritably.  Christophe  cut 
him  short: 

"Come,"  he  said.    "You  know  .    .    .»' 

(He  used  the  "  Du"  which  maddened  Diener,  who  from  the 
first  had  been  vainly  trying  to  set  up  between  Christophe  and 
himself  the  barrier  of  the  "  Sie") 

"  You  know  why  I  am  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Diener.    "  I  know." 

(He  had  heard  of  Christophe's  escapade,  and  the  warrant 
out  against  him,  from  his  friends.) 

"  Then,"  Christophe  went  on,  "  you  know  that  I  am  not  here 
for  fun.  I  have  had  to  fly.  I  have  nothing.  I  must  live." 

Diener  was  waiting  for  that,  for  the  request.  He  took  it 
with  a  mixture  of  satisfaction — (for  it  made  it  possible  for  him 
to  feel  his  superiority  over  Christophe) — and  embarrassment — 
(for  he  dared  not  make  Christophe  feel  his  superiority  as  much 
as  he  would  have  liked). 

"  Ah ! "  he  said  pompously.  "  It  is  very  tiresome,  very  tire- 
some. Life  here  is  hard.  Everything  is  so  dear.  We  have 
enormous  expenses.  And  all  these  assistants  ..." 

Christophe  cut  him  short  contemptuously: 

"  I  am  not  asking  you  for  money." 

Diener  was  abashed.     Christophe  went  on: 

"  Is  your  business  doing  well  ?    Have  you  many  customers  ?  " 

"Yes.  Yes.  Not  bad,  thank  God!  ..."  said  Diener 
cautiously.  (He  was  on  his  guard.) 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  13 

Christophe  darted  a  look  of  fury  at  him,  and  went  on : 

"  You  know  many  people  in  the  German  colony  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Very  well:  speak  for  me.  They  must  be  musical.  They 
have  children.  I  will  give  them  lessons." 

Diener  was  embarrassed  at  that. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Christophe.  "Do  you  think  I'm  not 
competent  to  do  the  work  ?  " 

He  was  asking  a  service  as  though  it  were  he  who  was 
rendering  it.  Diener,  who  would  not  have  done  a  thing  for 
Christophe  except  for  the  sake  of  putting  him  under  an 
obligation,  was  resolved  not  to  stir  a  finger  for  him. 

"It  isn't  that.  You're  a  thousand  times  too  good  for 
it.  Only  .  .  ." 

"What,  then?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  it's  very  difficult — very  difficult — on  account 
of  your  position." 

"My  position?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  You  see,  that  affair,  the  warrant.  ...  If 
that  were  to  be  known.  ...  It  is  difficult  for  me.  It  might 
do  me  harm." 

He  stopped  as  he  saw  Christophe's  face  go  hot  with  anger: 
and  he  added  quickly: 

"Not  on  my  own  account.  .  .  .  I'm  not  afraid.  .  .  . 
Ah!  If  I  were  alone!  .  .  .  But  my  uncle  .  .  .  you  know, 
the  business  is  his.  I  can  do  nothing  without  him.  ..." 

He  grew  more  and  more  alarmed  at  Christophe's  expression, 
and  at  the  thought  of  the  gathering  explosion  he  said  hur- 
riedly— (he  was  not  a  bad  fellow  at  bottom:  avarice  and  van- 
ity were  struggling  in  him:  he  would  have  liked  to  help  Chris- 
tophe, at  a  price) : 

"  Can  I  lend  you  fifty  francs  ?  " 

Christophe  went  crimson.  He  went  up  to  Diener,  who 
stepped  back  hurriedly  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  and  held  him- 
self in  readiness  to  call  for  help,  if  necessary.  But  Chris- 
tophe only  thrust  his  face  near  his  and  bawled : 


14  JEAtf-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

*  TOT  twine!1* 

And  he  flung  him  aside  and  walked  out  through  the  little 
throng  of  assistants.  At  the  door  he  spat  in  disgust. 

He  strode  along  down  the  street.  He  was  blind  with  fury. 
The  rain  sobered  him.  Where  was  he  going?  He  did  not 
know.  He  did  not  know  a  soul.  He  stopped  to  think  out- 
side a  book-shop,  and  he  stared  stupidly  at  the  rows  of  books. 
He  was  struck  by  the  name  of  a  publisher  on  the  cover  of  one  of 
them.  He  wondered  why.  Then  he  remembered  that  it  was 
the  name  of  the  house  in  which  Sylvain  Kohn  was  employed. 
He  made  a  note  of  the  address.  .  .  .  But  what  was  the  good  ? 
He  would  not  go.  ...  Why  should  he  not  go?  .  .  .  If 
that  scoundrel  Diener,  who  had  been  his  friend,  had  given  him 
such  a  welcome,  what  had  he  to  expect  from  a  rascal  whom  he 
had  handled  roughly,  who  had  good  cause  to  hate  him?  Vain 
humiliations!  His  blood  boiled  at  the  thought.  But  his  na- 
tive pessimism,  derived  perhaps  from  his  Christian  education, 
urged  him  on  to  probe  to  the  depths  of  human  baseness. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  stand  on  ceremony.  I  must  try  every- 
thing before  I  give  in." 

And  an  inward  voice  added : 

"  And  I  shall  not  give  in." 

He  made  sure  of  the  address,  and  went  to  hunt  up  Kohn. 
He  made  up  his  mind  to  hit  him  in  the  eye  at  the  first  show 
of  impertinence. 

The  publishing  house  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Madeleine.  Christophe  went  up  to  a  room  on  the  second 
floor,  and  asked  for  Sylvain  Kohn.  A  man  in  livery  told  him 
that  "Kohn  was  not  known."  Christophe  was  taken  aback, 
and  thought  his  pronunciation  must  Be  at  fault,  and  he  re- 
peated his  question:  but  the  man  listened  attentively,  and 
repeated  that  no  one  of  that  name  was  known  in  the  place. 
Quite  out  of  countenance,  Christophe  begged  pardon,  and  was 
turning  to  go  when  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  opened, 
and  he  saw  Kohn  himself  showing  a  lady  out.  Still  suffering 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  15 

from  the  affront  put  upon  him  by  Diener,  he  was  inclined  to 
think  that  everybody  was  having  a  joke  at  his  expense.  His 
first  thought  was  that  Kohn  had  seen  him,  and  had  given  orders 
to  the  man  to  say  that  he  was  not  there.  His  gorge  rose  at 
the  impudence  of  it.  He  was  on  the  point  of  going  in  a  huff, 
when  he  heard  his  name:  Kohn,  with  his  sharp  eyes,  had 
recognized  him :  and  he  ran  up  to  him,  with  a  smile  on  his 
lips,  and  his  hands  held  out  with  every  mark  of  extraordinary 
delight 

Sylvain  Kohn  was  short,  thick-set,  clean-shaven,  like  an 
American;  his  complexion  was  too  red,  his  hair  too  black;  he 
had  a  heavy,  massive  face,  coarse-featured;  little  darting, 
wrinkled  eyes,  a  rather  crooked  mouth,  a  heavy,  cunning  smile. 
He  was  modishly  dressed,  trying  to  cover  up  the  defects  of  his 
figure,  high  shoulders,  and  wide  hips.  That  was  the  only  thing 
that  touched  his  vanity :  he  would  gladly  have  put  up  with  any 
insult  if  only  he  could  have  been  a  few  inches  taller  and  of  a 
better  figure.  For  the  rest,  he  was  very  well  pleased  with 
himself:  -he  thought  himself  irresistible,  as  indeed  he  was. 
The  little  German  Jew,  clod  as  he  was,  had  made  himself  the 
chronicler  and  arbiter  of  Parisian  fashion  and  smartness.  He 
wrote  insipid  society  paragraphs  and  articles  in  a  delicately 
involved  manner.  He  was  the  champion  of  French  style,  French 
smartness,  French  gallantry,  French  wit — Regency,  red  heels, 
Lauzun.  People  laughed  at  him:  but  that  did  not  prevent  his 
success.  Those  who  say  that  in  Paris  ridicule  kills  do  not 
know  Paris:  so  far  from  dying  of  it,  there  are  people  who  live 
on  it:  in  Paris  ridicule  leads  to  everything,  even  to  fame  and 
fortune.  Sylvain  Kohn  was  far  beyond  any  need  to  reckon 
the  good- will  that  every  day  accumulated  to  him  through  his 
Frankfortian  affectations. 

He  spoke  with  a  thick  accent  through  his  nose. 

"  Ah !  What  a  surprise ! "  he  cried  gaily,  taking  Chris- 
tophe's  hands  in  his  own  clumsy  paws,  with  their  stubby  fingers 
that  looked  as  though  they  were  crammed  into  too  tight  a 
skin.  He  could  not  let  go  of  Christophe's  hands.  It  was  as 


16  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

though  he  were  encountering  his  best  friend.  Christophe  was 
so  staggered  that  he  wondered  again  if  Kohn  was  not  making 
fun  of  him.  But  Kohn  was  doing  nothing  of  the  kind— or, 
rather,  if  he  was  joking,  it  was  no  more  than  usual.  There  was 
no  rancor  about  Kohn:  he  was  too  clever  for  that.  He  had 
long  ago  forgotten  the  rough  treatment  he  had  suffered  at 
Christophe's  hands:  and  if  ever  he  did  remember  it,  it  did 
not  worry  him.  He  was  delighted  to  have  the  opportunity  of 
showing  his  old  schoolfellow  his  importance  and  his  new  duties, 
and  the  elegance  of  his  Parisian  manners.  He  was  not  lying  in 
expressing  his  surprise:  a  visit  from  Christophe  was  the  last 
thing  in  the  world  that  he  expected :  and  if  he  was  too  worldly- 
wise  not  to  know  that  the  visit  was  of  set  material  purpose, 
he  took  it  as  a  reason  the  more  for  welcoming  him,  as  it  was, 
in  fact,  a  tribute  to  his  power. 

"  And  you  have  come  from  Germany  ?  How  is  your 
mother?"  he  asked,  with  a  familiarity  which  at  any  other  time 
would  have  annoyed  Christophe,  but  now  gave  him  comfort  in 
the  strange  city. 

"But  how  was  it,"  asked  Christophe,  who  was  still  inclined 
to  be  suspicious,  "that  they  told  me  just  now  that  Herr  Kohn 
did  not  belong  here?" 

"  Herr  Kohn  doesn't  belong  here,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn,  laugh- 
ing. "  My  name  isn't  Kohn  now.  My  name  is  Hamilton." 

He  broke  off. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said. 

He  went  and  shook  hands  with  a  lady  who  was  passing  and 
smiled  grimacingly.  Then  he  came  back.  He  explained  that 
the  lady  was  a  writer  famous  for  her  voluptuous  and  pas- 
sionate novels.  The  modern  Sappho  had  a  purple  ribbon  on 
her  bosom,  a  full  figure,  bright  golden  hair  round  a  painted 
face ;  she  made  a  few  pretentious  remarks  in  a  mannish  fashion 
with  the  accent  of  Franche-Comte. 

Kohn  plied  Christophe  with  questions.  He  asked  about  all 
the  people  at  home,  and  what  had  become  of  so-and-so,  pluming 
himself  on  the  fact  that  he  remembered  everybody.  Christophe 


THE  MAKKET-PLACE  17 

had  forgotten  his  antipathy ;  he  replied  cordially  and  gratefully, 
giving  a  mass  of  detail  about  which  Kohn  cared  nothing  at  all, 
and  presently  he  broke  off  again. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said. 

And  he  went  to  greet  another  lady  who  had  come  in. 

"  Dear  me ! "  said  Christophe.  "  Are  there  only  women 
writers  in  France?" 

Kohn  began  to  laugh,  and  said  fatuously: 

"France  is  a  woman,  my  dear  fellow.  If  you  want  to  suc- 
ceed, make  up  to  the  women." 

Christophe  did  not  listen  to  the  explanation,  and  went  on 
with  his  own  story.  To  put  a  stop  to  it,  Kohn  asked : 

"  But  how  the  devil  do  you  come  'kere  ?  " 

"  Ah ! "  thought  Christophe,  "  he  doesn't  know.  That  is  why 
he  was  so  amiable.  He'll  be  different  when  he  knows." 

He  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  tell  everything  against  him- 
self:  the  brawl  with  the  soldiers,  the  warrant  out  against  him, 
his  flight  from  the  country. 

Kohn  rocked  with  laughter. 

"  Bravo !  "  he  cried.     "  Bravo !     That's  a  good  story !  " 

He  shook  Christophe's  hand  warmly.  He  was  delighted  by 
any  smack  in  the  eye  of  authority:  and  the  story  tickled  him 
the  more  as  he  knew  the  heroes  of  it:  he  saw  the  funny  side 
of  it. 

"  I  say,"  he  said,  "  it  is  past  twelve.  Will  you  give  me  the 
pleasure  .  .  .  ?  Lunch  with  me  ? " 

Christophe  accepted  gratefully.     He  thought : 

"This  is  a  good  fellow — decidedly  a  good  fellow.  I  was 
mistaken." 

They  went  out  together.  On  the  way  Christophe  put  for- 
ward his  request: 

"You  see  how  I  am  placed.  I  came  here  to  look  for  work 
— music  lessons — until  I  can  make  my  name.  Could  you  speak 
forme?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Kohn.  "  To  any  one  you  like.  I  know 
everybody  here,  I'm  at  your  service," 


18  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

He  was  glad  to  be  able  to  show  how  important  he  was. 

Christophe  covered  him  with  expressions  of  gratitude.  He 
felt  that  he  was  relieved  of  a  great  weight  of  anxiety. 

At  lunch  he  gorged  with  the  appetite  of  a  man  who  has 
not  broken  fast  for  two  days.  He  tucked  his  napkin  round 
his  neck,  and  ate  with  his  knife.  Kohn-Hamilton  was  horribly 
shocked  by  his  voracity  and  his  peasant  manners.  And  he  was 
hurt,  too,  by  the  small  amount  of  attention  that  his  guest  gave 
to  his  bragging.  He  tried  to  dazzle  him  by  telling  of  his  fine 
connections  and  his  prosperity :  but  it  was  no  good :  Christophe 
did  not  listen,  and  bluntly  interrupted  him.  His  tongue  was 
loosed,  and  he  became  familiar.  His  heart  was  full,  and  he 
overwhelmed  Kohn  with  his  simple  confidences  of  his  plans  for 
the  future.  Above  all,  he  exasperated  him  by  insisting  on  tak- 
ing his  hand  across  the  table  and  pressing  it  effusively.  And 
he  brought  him  to  the  pitch  of  irritation  at  last  by  wanting  to 
clink  glasses  in  the  German  fashion,  and,  with  sentimental 
speeches,  to  drink  to  those  at  home  and  to  Vater  Rhein.  Kohn 
saw,  to  his  horror,  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  singing.  The 
people  at  the  next  table  were  casting  ironic  glances  in  their 
direction.  Kohn  made  some  excuse  on  the  score  of  pressing 
business,  and  got  up.  Christophe  clung  to  him:  he  wanted 
to  know  when  he  could  have  a  letter  of  introduction,  and  go 
and  see  some  one,  and  begin  giving  lessons. 

"  I'll  see  about  it.  To-day— this  evening,"  said  Kohn.  "  I'll 
talk  about  you  at  once.  You  can  be  easy  on  that  score." 

Christophe  insisted. 

"When  shall  I  know?" 

"To-morrow  .    .    .  to-morrow  ...  or  the  day  after." 

"Very  well.     I'll  come  back  to-morrow." 

"  No,  no !  "  said  Kohn  quickly.  "  I'll  let  you  know.  Don't 
you  worry." 

"Oh!  it's  no  trouble.  Quite  the  contrary.  Eh?  I've 
nothing  else  to  do  in  Paris  in  the  meanwhile." 

"  Good  God !  "  thought  Kohn.  ..."  No/'  he  said  aloud. 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  19 

"  But  I  would  rather  write  to  you.     You  wouldn't  find  me  the 
next  few  days.     Give  me  your  address." 

Christophe  dictated  it. 

"  Good.     I'll  write  you  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  ?  " 

"  To-morrow.     You  can  count  on  it." 

He  cut  short  Christophe's  hand-shaking,  and  escaped. 

"  Ugh !  "  he  thought.     "  What  a  bore !  " 

As  he  went  into  his  office  he  told  the  boy  that  he  would  not 
be  in  when  "  the  German  "  came  to  see  him.  Ten  minutes  later 
he  had  forgotten  him. 

Christophe  went  back  to  his  lair.  He  was  full  of  gentle 
thoughts. 

"  What  a  good  fellow !  What  a  good  fellow !  "  he  thought. 
"  How  unjust  I  was  about  him.  And  he  bears  me  no  ill-will !  " 

He,  was  remorseful,  and  he  was  on  the  point  of  writing  to 
tell  Kohn  how  sorry  he  was  to  have  misjudged  him,  and  to  beg 
his  forgiveness  for  all  the  harm  he  had  done  him.  The  tears 
came  to  his  eyes  as  he  thought  of  it.  But  it  was  harder  for 
him  to  write  a  letter  than  a  score  of  music:  and  after  he  had 
cursed  and  cursed  the  pen  and  ink  of  the  hotel — which  were, 
in  fact,  horrible — after  he  had  blotted,  criss-crossed,  and  torn 
up  five  or  six  sheets  of  paper,  he  lost  patience  and  dropped  it. 

The  rest  of  the  day  dragged  wearily:  but  Christophe  was  so 
worn  out  by  his  sleepless  night  and  his  excursions  in  the  morn- 
ing that  at  length  he  dozed  off  in  his  chair.  He  only  woke  up 
in  the  evening,  and  then  he  went  to  bed :  and  he  slept  for  twelve 
hours  on  end. 

Next  day  from  eight  o'clock  on  he  sat  waiting  for  the  prom- 
ised letter.  He  had  no  doubt  of  Kohn's  sincerity.  He  did  not 
go  out,  telling  himself  that  perhaps  Kohn  would  come  round 
by  the  hotel  on  his  way  to  his  office.  So  as  not  to  be  out, 
about  midday  he  had  his  lunch  sent  up  from  the  eating-house 
downstairs.  Then  he  sat  waiting  again.  He  was  sure  Kohn 
would  come  on  his  way  back  from  lunch.  He  paced  up  and 


20  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

down  his  room,  sat  down,  paced  up  and  down  again,  opened  his 
door  whenever  he  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  He  had  no 
desire  to  go  walking  about  Paris  to  stay  his  anxiety.  He  lay 
down  on  his  bed.  His  thoughts  went  back  and  back  to  his  old 
mother,  who  was  thinking  of  him  too — she  alone  thought  of 
him.  He  had  an  infinite  tenderness  for  her,  and  he  was  re- 
morseful at  having  left  her.  But  he  did  not  write  to  her.  He 
was  waiting  until  he  could  tell  her  that  he  had  found  work. 
In  spite  of  the  love  they  had  for  each  other,  it  would  never  have 
occurred  to  either  of  them  to  write  just  to  tell  their  love:  let- 
ters were  for  things  more  definite  than  that.  He  lay  on  the 
bed  with  his  hands  locked  behind  his  head,  and  dreamed.  Al- 
though his  room  was  away  from  the  street,  the  roar  of  Paris 
invaded  the  silence:  the  house  shook.  Night  came  again,  and 
brought  no  letter. 

Came  another  day  like  unto  the  last. 

On  the  third  day,  exasperated  by  his  voluntary  seclusion, 
Christophe  decided  to  go  out.  But  from  the  impression  of  his 
first  evening  he  was  instinctively  in  revolt  against  Paris.  He 
had  no  desire  to  see  anything:  no  curiosity:  he  was  too  much 
taken  up  with  the  problem  of  his  own  life  to  take  any  pleasure 
in  watching  the  lives  of  others :  and  the  memories  of  lives  past, 
the  monuments  of  a  city,  had  always  left  him  cold.  And  so, 
hardly  had  he  set  foot  out  of  doors,  than,  although  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  not  to  go  near  Kohn  for  a  week,  he  went 
straight  to  his  office. 

The  boy  obeyed  his  orders,  and  said  that  M.  Hamilton  had 
left  Paris  on  business.  It  was  a  blow  to  Christophe.  He  gasped 
and  asked  when  M.  Hamilton  would  return.  The  boy  replied 
at  random: 

"  In  ten  days." 

Christophe  went  back  utterly  downcast,  and  buried  himself 
in  his  room  during  the  following  days.  He  found  it  impos- 
sible to  work.  His  heart  sank  as  he  saw  that  his  small  supply 
of  money — the  little  sum  that  his  mother  had  sent  him,  care- 
fully wrapped  up  in  a  handkerchief  at  the  bottom  of  his  bag — 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  21 

was  rapidly  decreasing.  He  imposed  a  severe  regime  on  him- 
self. He  only  went  down  in  the  evening  to  dinner  in  the  little 
pot-house,  where  he  quickly  became  known  to  the  frequenters 
of  it  as  the  "  Prussian,"  or  "  Sauerkraut."  With  frightful  effort, 
he  wrote  two  or  three  letters  to  French  musicians  whose  names 
he  knew  hazily.  One  of  them  had  been  dead  for  ten  years. 
He  asked  them  to  be  so  kind  as  to  give  him  a  hearing.  His  spell- 
ing was  wild,  and  his  style  was  complicated  by  those  long  in- 
versions and  ceremonious  formula  which  are  the  custom  in 
Germany.  He  addressed  his  letters:  "To  the  Palace  of  the 
Academy  of  France."  The  only  man  to  read  his  gave  it  to  his 
friends  as  a  joke. 

After  a  week  Christophe  went  once  more  to  the  publisher's 
office.  This  time  he  was  in  luck.  He  met  Sylvain  Kohn  go- 
ing out,  on  the  doorstep.  Kohn  made  a  face  as  he  saw  that 
he  was  caught:  but  Christophe  was  so  happy  that  he  did  not 
see  that.  He  took  his  hands  in  his  usual  uncouth  way,  and 
asked  gaily: 

"  You've  been  away  ?    Did  you  have  a  good  time  ?  " 

Kohn  said  that  he  had  had  a  very  good  time,  but  he  did 
not  unbend.  Christophe  went  on: 

"  I  came,  you  know.  .  .  .  They  told  you,  I  suppose  ?  .  .  . 
Well,  any  news?  You  mentioned  my  name?  What  did  they 
say?" 

Kohn  looked  blank.  Christophe  was  amazed  at  his  frigid 
manner :  he  was  not  the  same  man. 

"I  mentioned  you,"  said  Kohn:  "but  I  haven't  heard  yet. 
1  haven't  had  time.  I  have  been  very  busy  since  I  saw  you — 
up  to  my  ears  in  business.  I  don't  know  how  I  can  get 
through.  It  is  appalling.  I  shall  be  ill  with  it  all." 

"Aren't  you  well?"  asked  Christophe  anxiously  and 
solicitously. 

Kohn  looked  at  him  slyly,  and  replied : 

"Not  at  all  well.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter,  the  last 
few  days.  I'm  very  unwell." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Christophe,  taking  his  arm.    "Do  be 


22  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

careful.  You  must  rest.  I'm  so  sorry  to  have  been  a  bother 
to  you.  You  should  have  told  me.  What  is  the  matter  with 
you,  really  ?  " 

He  took  Kohn's  sham  excuses  so  seriously  that  the  little 
Jew  was  hard  put  to  it  to  hide  his  amusement,  and  disarmed  by 
his  funny  simplicity.  Irony  is  so  dear  a  pleasure  to  the  Jews 
— (and  a  number  of  Christians  in  Paris  are  Jewish  in  this  re- 
spect)— that  they  are  indulgent  with  bores,  and  even  with 
their  enemies,  if  they  give  them  the  opportunity  of  tasting  it 
at  their  expense.  Besides,  Kohn  was  touched  by  Christophe's 
interest  in  himself.  He  felt  inclined  to  help  him. 

"  I've  got  an  idea,"  he  said.  "  While  you  are  waiting  for 
lessons,  would  you  care  to  do  some  work  for  a  music  publisher  ?  " 

Christophe  accepted  eagerly. 

"  I've  got  the  very  thing,"  said  Kohn.  "  I  know  one  of  the 
partners  in  a  big  firm  of  music  publishers — Daniel  Hecht.  I'll 
introduce  you.  You'll  see  what  there  is  to  do.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  it,  you  know.  But  Hecht  is  a  real  musician. 
You'll  get  on  with  him  all  right." 

They  parted  until  the  following  day.  Kohn  was  not  sorry 
to  be  rid  of  Christophe  by  doing  him  this  service. 

Next  day  Christophe  fetched  Kohn  at  his  office.  On  his 
advice,  he  had  brought  several  of  his  compositions  to  show 
to  Hecht.  They  found  him  in  his  music-shop  near  the  Opera. 
Hecht  did  not  put  himself  out  when  they  went  in:  he  coldly 
held  out  two  fingers  to  take  Kohn's  hand,  did  not  reply  to  Chris- 
tophe's ceremonious  bow,  and  at  Kohn's  request  he  took  them 
into  the  next  room.  He  did  not  ask  them  to  sit  down.  He 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  empty  chimney-place,  and  stared  at 
the  wall. 

Daniel  Hecht  was  a  man  of  forty,  tall,  cold,  correctly 
dressed,  a  marked  Phenician  type;  he  looked  clever  and  dis- 
agreeable: there  was  a  scowl  on  his  face:  he  had  black  hair 
and  a  beard  like  that  of  an  Assyrian  King,  long  and  square-cut. 
He  hardly  ever  looked  straight  forward,  and  he  had  an  icy 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  23 

brutal  way  of  talking  which  sounded  insulting  even  when  he 
only  said  "  Good-day."  His  insolence  was  more  apparent  than 
real.  No  doubt  it  emanated  from  a  contemptuous  strain  in  his 
character:  but  really  it  was  more  a  part  of  the  automatic  and 
formal  element  in  him.  Jews  of  that  sort  are  quite  common: 
opinion  is  not  kind  towards  them:  that  hard  stiffness  of  theirs 
is  looked  upon  as  arrogance,  while  it  is  often  in  reality  the  out- 
come of  an  incurable  boorishness  in  body  and  soul. 

Sylvain  Kohn  introduced  his  protege,  in  a  bantering,  pre- 
tentious voice,  with  exaggerated  praises.  Christophe  was 
abashed  by  his  reception,  and  stood  shifting  from  one  foot 
to  the  other,  holding  his  manuscripts  and  his  hat  in  his  hand. 
When  Kohn  had  finished,  Hecht,  who  up  to  then  had  seemed  to 
be  unaware  of  Christophe's  existence,  turned  towards  him  dis- 
dainfully, and,  without  looking  at  him,  said : 

"Krafft  .  .  .  Christophe  Krafft.  .  .  .  Never  heard  the 
name." 

To  Christophe  it  was  as  though  he  had  been  struck,  full  in 
the  chest.  The  blood  rushed  to  his  cheeks.  He  replied  angrily : 

"  You'll  hear  it  later  on." 

Hecht  took  no  notice,  and  went  on  imperturbably,  as  though 
Christophe  did  not  exist: 

"  Krafft  ...  no,  never  heard  it." 

He  was  one  of  those  people  for  whom  not  to  be  known  to 
them  is  a  mark  against  a  man. 

He  went  on  in  German : 

"  And  you  come  from  the  Rhine-land  ?  .  .  .  It's  wonder- 
ful how  many  people  there  are  there  who  dabble  in  music ! 
But  I  don't  think  there  is  a  man  among  them  who  has  any 
claim  to  be  a  musician." 

He  meant  it  as  a  joke,  not  as  an  insult:  but  Christophe  did 
not  take  it  so.  He  would  have  replied  in  kind  if  Kohn  had 
not  anticipated  him. 

"  Oh,  come,  come !  "  he  said  to  Hecht.  "  You  must  do  me 
the  justice  to  admit  that  I  know  nothing  at  all  about  it." 

"  That's  to  your  credit,"  replied  Hecht. 


'24  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"If  I  am  to  be  no  musician  in  order  to  please  you,"  said 
Christophe  dryly,  "  I  am  sorry,  but  I'm  not  that." 

Hecht,  still  looking  aside,  went  on,  as  indifferently  as  ever. 

"  You  have  written  music  ?  What  have  you  written  ?  Lieder, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

'  Lieder,  two  symphonies,  symphonic  poems,  quartets,  piano 
suites,  theater  music,"  said  Christophe,  boiling. 

"People  write  a  great  deal  in  Germany,"  said  Hecht,  with 
scornful  politeness. 

It  made  him  all  the  more  suspicious  of  the  newcomer  to 
think  that  he  had  written  so  many  works,  and  that  he,  Daniel 
Hecht,  had  not  heard  of  them. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  might  perhaps  find  work  for  you  as 
you  are  recommended  by  my  friend  Hamilton.  At  present  we 
are  making  a  collection,  a  'Library  for  Young  People/  in 
which  we  are  publishing  •  some  easy  pianoforte  pieces.  Could 
you  '  simplify '  the  Carnival  of  Schumann,  and  arrange  it  for  six 
and  eight  hands  ?  " 

Christophe  was  staggered. 

"  And  you  offer  that  to  me,  to  me — me  .    .    .  ?  " 

His  naive  "  Me  "  delighted  Kohn :  but  Hecht  was  offended. 

"  I  don't  see  that  there  is  anything  surprising  in  that,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  not  such  easy  work  as  all  that !  If  you  think  it 
too  easy,  so  much  the  better.  We'll  see  about  that  later  on. 
You  tell  me  you  are  a  good  musician.  I  must  believe  you. 
But  I've  never  heard  of  you." 

He  thought  to  himself: 

"If  one  were  to  believe  all  these  young  sparks,  they  would 
knock  the  stuffing  out  of  Johannes  Brahms  himself." 

Christophe  made  no  reply — (for  he  had  vowed  to  hold  him- 
self in  check) — clapped  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  turned  towards 
the  door.  Kohn  stopped  him,  laughing : 

"  Wait,  wait !  "  he  said.  And  he  turned  to  Hecht :  "  He  has 
brought  some  of  his  work  to  give  you  an  idea." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Hecht  warily.  "  Very  well,  then :  let  us  see 
them/' 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  25 

Without  a  word  Christophe  held  out  hia  manuscripts.  Hecht 
cast  his  eyes  over  them  carelessly. 

"What's  this?  A  suite  for  piano  .  .  .  (reading) :  A  Day. 
...  Ah!  Always  program  music!  .  .  ." 

In  spite  of  his  apparent  indifference  he  was  reading  care- 
fully. He  was  an  excellent  musician,  and  knew  his  job:  he 
knew  nothing  outside  it:  with  the  first  bar  or  two  he  gauged 
his  man.  He  was  silent  as  he  turned  over  the  pages  with  a 
scornful  air:  he -was  struck  by  the  talent  revealed  in  them: 
but  his  natural  reserve  and  his  vanity,  piqued  by  Christophe's 
manner,  kept  him  from  showing  anything.  He  went  on  to  the 
end  in  silence,  not  missing  a  note. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  patronizing  tone  of  voice,  "  they're  well 
enough." 

Violent  criticism  would  have  hurt  Christophe  less. 

"  I  don't  need  to  be  told  that,"  he  said  irritably. 

"  I  fancy,"  said  Hecht,  "  that  you  showed  me  them  for  me 
to  say  what  I  thought." 

"  Not  at  all." 

"Then,"  said  Hecht  coldly,  "I  fail  to  see  what  you  have 
come  for." 

"  I  came  to  ask  for  work,  and  nothing  else." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you  for  the  time  being,  except  what 
I  told  you.  And  I'm  not  sure  of  that.  I  said  it  was  possible, 
that's  all." 

"And  you  have  no  other  work  to  offer  a  musician  like  my- 
self?" 

"  A  musician  like  you  ?  "  said  Hecht  ironically  and  cuttingly. 
"  Other  musicians  at  least  as  good  as  yourself  have  not 
thought  the  work  beneath  their  dignity.  There  are  men  whose 
names  I  could  give  you,  men  who  are  now  very  well  known  in 
Paris,  have  been  very  grateful  to  me  for  it." 

"  Then  they  must  have  been — swine !  "  bellowed  Christophe. 
— (He  had  already  learned  certain  of  the  most  useful  words  in 
the  French  language) — "You  are  wrong  if  you  think  you  have 
to  do  with  a  man  of  that  kidney.  Do  you  think  you  can  take 


26  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

me  in  with  looking  anywhere  but  at  me,  and  clipping  your 
words?  You  didn't  even  deign  to  acknowledge  my  bow  when 
I  came  in.  ...  But  what  the  hell  are  you  to  treat  me  like 
that?  Are  you  even  a  musician?  Have  you  ever  written  any- 
thing? ...  And  you  pretend  to  teach  me  how  to  write — 
me.  to  whom  writing  is  life!  .  .  .  And  you  can  find  nothing 
better  to  offer  me,  when  you  have  read  my  music,  than  a 
hashing  up  of  great  musicians,  a  filthy  scrabbling  over  their 
works  to  turn  them  into  parlor  tricks  for  little  girls!  .  .  . 
You  go  to  your  Parisians  who  are  rotten  enough  to  be  taught 
their  work  by  you !  I'd  rather  die  first !  " 

It  was  impossible  to  stem  the  torrent  of  his  words. 

Hecht  said  icily: 

"  Take  it  or  leave  it" 

Christophe  went  out  and  slammed  the  doors.  Hecht 
shrugged,  and  said  to  Sylvain  Kohn,  who  was  laughing: 

"  He  will  come  to  it  like  the  rest." 

At  heart  he  valued  Christophe.  He  was  clever  enough  to 
feel  not  only  the  worth  of  a  piece  of  work,  but  also  the  worth 
of  a  man.  Behind  Christophe's  outburst  he  had  marked  a 
force.  And  he  knew  its  rarity — in  the  world  of  art  more  than 
anywhere  else.  But  his  vanity  was  ruffled  by  it:  nothing  would 
ever  induce  him  to  admit  himself  in  the  wrong.  He  desired 
loyally  to  be  just  to  Christophe,  but  he  could  not  do  it  unless 
Christophe  came  and  groveled  to  him.  He  expected  Chris- 
tophe to  return:  his  melancholy  skepticism  and  his  experience 
of  men  had  told  him  how  inevitably  the  will  is  weakened  and 
worn  down  by  poverty. 

Christophe  went  home.  Anger  had  given  place  to  despair. 
He  felt  that  he  was  lost.  The  frail  prop  on  which  he  had 
counted  had  failed  him.  He  had  no  doubt  but  that  he  had 
made  a  deadly  enemy,  not  only  of  Hecht,  but  of  Kohn,  who  had 
introduced  him.  He  was  in  absolute  solitude  in  a  hostile  city. 
Outside  Diener  and  Kohn  he  knew  no  one.  His  friend  Corinne, 
the  beautiful  actress  whom  he  had  met  in  Germany,  was  not 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  27 

in  Paris:  she  was  still  touring  abroad,  in  America,  this  time 
on  her  own  account:  the  papers  published  clamatory  descrip- 
tions of  her  travels.  As  for  the  little  French  governess  whom 
he  had  unwittingly  robbed  of  her  situation, — the  thought  of  her 
had  long  filled  him  with  remorse — how  often  had  he  vowed 
that  he  would  find  her  when  he  reached  Paris.1  But  now  that 
he  was  in  Paris  he  found  that  he  had  forgotten  one  important 
thing:  her  name.  He  could  not  remember  it.  He  could  only 
recollect  her  Christian  name :  Antoinette.  And  then,  even  if  he 
remembered,  how  was  he  to  find  a  poor  little  governess  in  that 
ant-heap  of  human  beings  ? 

He  had  to  set  to  work  as  soon  as  possible  to  find  a  liveli- 
hood. He  had  five  francs  left.  In  spite  of  his  dislike  of  him, 
he  forced  himself  to  ask  the  innkeeper  if  he  did  not  know  of 
anybody  in  the  neighborhood  to  whom  he  could  give  music- 
lessons.  The  innkeeper,  who  had  no  great  opinion  of  a  lodger 
who  only  ate  once  a  day  and  spoke  German,  lost  what  respect 
he  had  for  him  when  he  heard  that  he  was  only  a  musician. 
He  was  a  Frenchman  of  the  old  school,  and  music  was  to  him 
an  idler's  job.  He  scoffed: 

"The  piano!  ...  I  don't  know.  You  strum  the  piano! 
Congratulations !  .  .  .  But  'tis  a  queer  thing  to  take  to  that 
trade  as  a  matter  of  taste!  When  I  hear  music,  it's  just  for 
all  the  world  like  listening  to  the  rain.  .  .  .  But  perhaps 
you  might  teach  me.  What  do  you  say,  you  fellows  ?  "  he 
cried,  turning  to  some  fellows  who  were  drinking. 

They  laughed  loudly. 

"It's  a  fine  trade,"  said  one  of  them.  "Not  dirty  work. 
And  the  ladies  like  it." 

Christophe  did  not  rightly  understand  the  French  or  the 
jest :  he  floundered  for  his  words :  he  did  not  know  whether  to 
be  angry  or  not.  The  innkeeper's  wife  took  pity  on  him : 

"  Come,  come,  Philippe,  you're  not  serious,"  she  said  to  her 
husband.  "  All  the  same,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  Christophe, 
"  there  is  some  one  who  might  do  for  you." 

1  See  Jean-Christophe—l :  "  Revolt." 


28  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"Who?"  asked  her  husband. 

"  The  Grasset  girl.    You  know,  they've  bought  a  piano." 

"  Ah !    Those  stuck-up  folk !     So  they  have." 

They  told  Christophe  that  the  girl  in  question  was  the 
daughter  of  a  butcher:  her  parents  were  trying  to  make  a  lady 
of  her;  they  would  perhaps  like  her  to  have  lessons,  if  only 
for  the  sake  of  making  people  talk.  The  innkeeper's  wife 
promised  to  see  to  it. 

Next  day  she  told  Christophe  that  the  butcher's  wife  would 
like  to  see  him.  He  went  to  her  house,  and  found  her  in  the 
shop,  surrounded  with  great  pieces  of  meat.  She  was  a  pretty, 
rather  florid  woman,  and  she  smiled  sweetly,  but  stood  on  her 
dignity  when  she  heard  why  he  had  come.  Quite  abruptly  she 
came  to  the  question  of  payment,  and  said  quickly  that  she 
did  not  wish  to  give  much,  because  the  piano  is  quite  an  agree- 
able thing,  but  not  necessary :  she  offered  him  fifty  centimes  an 
hour.  In  any  case,  she  would  not  pay  more  than  four  francs 
a  week.  After  that  she  asked  Christophe  a  little  doubtfully  if 
he  knew  much  about  music.  She  was  reassured,  and  became 
more  amiable  when  he  told  her  that  not  only  did  he  know 
about  music,  but  wrote  it  into  the  bargain:  that  flattered  her 
vanity:  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  spread  about  the  neigh- 
borhood that  her  daughter  was  taking  lessons  with  a  com- 
poser. 

Next  day,  when  Christophe  found  himself  sitting  by  the 
piano — a  horrible  instrument,  bought  second-hand,  which 
sounded  like  a  guitar — with  the  butcher's  little  daughter,  whose 
short,  stubby  fingers  fumbled  with  the  keys;  who  was  unable 
to  tell  one  note  from  another;  who  was  bored  to  tears;  who 
began  at  once  to  yawn  in  his  face;  and  he  had  to  submit  to 
the  mother's  superintendence,  and  to  her  conversation,  and  to 
her  ideas  on  music  and  the  teaching  of  music — then  he  felt  so 
miserable,  so  wretchedly  humiliated,  that  he  had  not  even  the 
strength  to  be  angry  about  it.  He  relapsed  into  a  state  of 
despair:  there  were  evenings  when  he  could  not  eat.  If  in  a 
few  weeks  he  had  fallen  so  low,  where  would  he  end?  What 


THE  MAEKET-PLACB  29 

good  was  it  to  have  rebelled  against  Hecht's  offer?  The  thing 
to  which  he  had  submitted  was  even  more  degrading. 

One  evening,  as  he  sat  in  his  room,  he  could  not  restrain  his 
tears:  he  flung  himself  on  his  knees  by  his  bed  and  prayed. 
...  To  whom  did  he  pray?  To  whom  could  he  pray?  He 
did  not  believe  in  God ;  he  believed  that  there  was  no  God.  .  .  . 
But  he  had  to  pray — he  had  to  pray  within  his  soul.  Only  the 
mean  of  spirit  never  need  to  pray.  They  never  know  the  need 
that  comes  to  the  strong  in  spirit  of  taking  refuge  within  the 
inner  sanctuary  of  themselves.  As  he  left  behind  him  the 
humiliations  of  the  day,  in  the  vivid  silence  of  his  heart  Chris- 
tophe  felt  the  presence  of  his  eternal  Being,  of  his  God.  The 
waters  of  his  wretched  life  stirred  and  shifted  above  Him  and 
never  touched  Him:  what  was  there  in  common  between  that 
and  Him  ?  All  the  sorrows  of  the  world  rushing  on  to  destruc- 
tion dashed  against  that  rock.  Christophe  heard  the  blood  beat- 
ing in  his  veins,  beating  like  an  inward  voice,  crying : 

"Eternal  ...  I  am  ...  I  am.  ..." 

Well  did  he  know  that  voice:  as  long  as  he  could  remember 
he  had  heard  it.  Sometimes  he  forgot  it:  often  for  months  to- 
gether he  would  lose  consciousness  of  its  mighty  monotonous 
rhythm :  but  he  knew  that  it  was  there,  that  it  never  ceased,  like 
the  ocean  roaring  in  the  night.  In  the  music  of  it  he  found 
once  more  the  same  energy  that  he  gained  from  it  whenever 
he  bathed  in  its  waters.  He  rose  to  his  feet.  He  was  fortified. 
No:  the  hard  life  that  he  led  contained  nothing  of  which  he 
need  be  ashamed:  he  could  eat  the  bread  he  earned,  and  never 
blush  for  it:  it  was  for  those  who  made  him  earn  it  at  such  a 
price  to  blush  and  be  ashamed.  Patience!  Patience!  The 
time  would  come.  .  .  . 

But  next  day  he  began  to  lose  patience  again:  and,  in  spite 
of  all  his  efforts,  he  did  at  last  explode  angrily,  one  day  during 
a  lesson,  at  the  silly  little  ninny,  who  had  been  maddeningly  im- 
pertinent and  laughed  at  his  accent,  and  had  taken  a  malicious 
delight  in  doing  exactly  the  opposite  of  what  he  told  her. 
The  girl  screamed  in  response  to  Christophe's  angry  shouts. 


aa  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

She  was  frightened  and  enraged  at  a  man  whom  she  paid  dar- 
ing to  show  her  no  respect.  She  declared  that  he  had  struck 
her — (Christophe  had  shaken  her  arm  rather  roughly).  Her 
mother  bounced  in  on  them  like  a  Fury,  and  covered  her 
daughter  with  kisses  and  Christophe  with  abuse.  The  butcher 
also  appeared,  and  declared  that  he  would  not  suffer  any  in- 
fernal Prussian  to  take  upon  himself  to  touch  his  daughter. 
Furious,  pale  with  rage,  itching  to  choke  the  life  out  of  the 
butcher  and  his  wife  and  daughter,  Christophe  rushed  away. 
His  host  and  hostess,  seeing  him  come  in  in  an  abject  condi- 
tion, had  no  difficulty  in  worming  the  story  out  of  him:  and 
it  fed  the  malevolence  with  which  they  regarded  their  neigh- 
bors. But  by  the  evening  the  whole  neighborhood  was  saying 
that  the  German  was  a  brute  and  a  child-beater. 

Christophe  made  fresh  advances  to  the  music-vendors:  but 
in  vain.  He  found  the  French  lacking  in  cordiality:  and  the 
whirl  and  confusion  of  their  perpetual  agitation  crushed  him. 
They  seemed  to  him  to  live  in  a  state  of  anarchy,  directed  by  a 
cunning  and  despotic  bureaucracy. 

One  evening,  he  was  wandering  along  the  boulevards,  dis- 
couraged by  the  futility  of  his  efforts,  when  he  saw  Sylvain 
Kohn  coming  from  the  opposite  direction.  He  was  convinced 
that  they  had  quarreled  irrevocably  and  looked  away  and  tried 
to  pass  unnoticed.  But  Kohn  called  to  him: 

"  What  became  of  you  after  that  great  day  ?  "  he  asked  with 
a  laugh.  "  I've  been  wanting  to  look  you  up,  but  I  lost  your 
address.  .  .  .  Good  Lord,  my  dear  fellow,  I  didn't  know 
you !  You  were  epic :  thaf  s  what  you  were,  epic !  " 

Christophe  stared  at  him.  He  was  surprised  and  a  little 
ashamed. 

"  You're  not  angry  with  me  ?  " 

"  Angry  ?     What  an  idea !  " 

So  far  from  being  angry,  he  had  been  delighted  with  the 
way  in  which  Christophe  had  trounced  Hecht:  it  had  been  a 
treat  to  him.  It  really  mattered  nothing  to  him  whether  Chris- 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  31 

tophe  or  Hecht  was  right :  he  only  regarded  people  as  source  of 
entertainment:  and  he  saw  in  Christophe  a  spring  of  high 
comedy,  which  he  intended  to  exploit  to  the  full. 

"You  should  have  come  to  see  me,"  he  went  on.  "I  was 
expecting  you.  What  are  you  doing  this  evening?  Come  to 
dinner.  I  won't  let  you  off.  Quite  informal :  just  a  few  artists : 
we  meet  once  a  fortnight.  You  should  know  these  people. 
Come.  I'll  introduce  you." 

In  vain  did  Christophe  beg  to  be  excused  on  the  score  of  his 
clothes.  Sylvain  Kohn  carried  him  off. 

They  entered  a  restaurant  on  one  of  the  boulevards,  and 
went  up  to  the  second  floor.  Christophe  found  himself  among 
about  thirty  young  men,  whose  ages  ranged  from  twenty  to 
thirty-five,  and  they  were  all  engaged  in  animated  discussion. 
Kohn  introduced  him  as  a  man  who  had  just  escaped  from  a 
German  prison.  They  paid  no  attention  to  him  and  did  not 
stop  their  passionate  discussion,  and  Kohn  plunged  into  it  at 
once. 

Christophe  was  shy  in  this  select  company,  and  said  nothing : 
but  he  was  all  ears.  He  could  not  grasp — he  had  great  dif- 
ficulty in  following  the  volubility  of  the  French — what  great 
artistic  interests  were  in  dispute.  He  listened  attentively,  but 
he  could  only  make  out  words  like  "  trust,"  "  monopoly,"  "  fall 
in  prices,"  "  receipts,"  mixed  up  with  phrases  like  "  the  dignity 
of  art,"  and  the  "  rights  of  the  author."  And  at  last  he  saw  that 
they  were  talking  business.  A  certain  number  of  authors,  it 
appeared,  belonged  to  a  syndicate  and  were  angry  about  certain 
attempts  which  had  been  made  to  float  a  rival  concern,  which, 
according  to  them,  would  dispute  their  monopoly  of  exploita- 
tion. The  defection  of  certain  of  their  members  who  had 
found  it  to  their  advantage  to  go  over  bag  and  baggage  to  the 
rival  house  had  roused  them  to  the  wildest  fury.  They  talked 
of  decapitation.  "...  Burked.  .  .  .  Treachery.  .  .  . 
Shame.  .  .  .  Sold.  ..." 

Others  did  not  worry  about  the  living:  they  were  incensed 
against  the  dead,  whose  sales  without  royalties  choked  up  the 


32  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

market.  It  appeared  that  the  works  of  De  Musset  had  just 
become  public  property,  and  were  selling  far  too  well.  And 
so  they  demanded  that  the  State  should  give  them  rigorous 
protection,  and  heavily  tax  the  masterpieces  of  the  past  so  as 
to  check  their  circulation  at  reduced  prices,  which,  they  de- 
clared, was  unfair  competition  with  the  work  of  living  artists. 

They  stopped  each  other  to  hear  the  takings  of  such  and 
such  a  theater  on  the  preceding  evening.  They  all  went  into 
ecstasies  over  the  fortune  of  a  veteran  dramatist,  famous  in 
two  continents — a  man  whom  they  despised,  though  they  en- 
vied him  even  more.  From  the  incomes  of  authors  they  passed 
to  those  of  the  critics.  They  talked  of  the  sum — (pure  cal- 
umny, no  doubt) — received  by  one  of  their  colleagues  for  every 
first  performance  at  one  of  the  theaters  on  the  boulevards,  the 
consideration  being  that  he  should  speak  well  of  it.  He  was 
an  honest  man :  having  made  his  bargain  he  stuck  to  it :  but  his 
great  secret  lay — (so  they  said) — in  so  eulogizing  the  piece  that 
it  would  be  taken  off  as  quickly  as  possible  so  that  there  might  be 
many  new  plays.  The  tale — (or  the  account) — caused  laughter, 
but  nobody  was  surprised. 

And  mingled  with  all  that  talk  they  threw  out  fine  phrases: 
they  talked  of  "  poetry  "  and  "  art  for  art's  sake."  But  through 
it  all  there  rang  "art  for  money's  sake";  and  this  jobbing 
spirit,  newly  come  into  French  literature,  scandalized  Chris- 
tophe.  As  he  understood  nothing  at  all  about  their  talk  of 
money  he  had  given  it  up.  But  then  they  began  to  talk  of  let- 
ters, or  rather  of  men  of  letters. — Christophe  pricked  up  his 
ears  as  he  heard  the  name  of  Victor  Hugo. 

They  were  debating  whether  he  had  been  cuckolded :  they 
argued  at  length  about  the  love  of  Sainte-Beuve  and  Madame 
Hugo.  And  then  they  turned  to  the  lovers  of  George  Sand 
and  their  respective  merits.  That  was  the  chief  occupation  of 
criticism  just  then:  when  they  had  ransacked  the  houses  of 
great  men,  rummaged  through  the  closets,  turned  out  the 
drawers,  ransacked  the  cupboards,  they  burrowed  down  to  their 
inmost  lives.  The  attitude  of  Monsieur  de  Lauzun  lying  flat 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  33 

under  the  bed  of  the  King  and  Madame  de  Montespan  was 
the  attitude  of  criticism  in  its  cult  of  history  and  truth — 
(everybody  just  then,  of  course,  made  a  cult  of  truth).  These 
young  men  were  subscribers  to  the  cult :  no  detail  was  too  small 
for  them  in  their  search  for  truth.  They  applied  it  to  the  art 
of  the  present  as  well  as  to  that  of  the  past:  and  they  analyzed 
the  private  life  of  certain  of  the  more  notorious  of  their  contem- 
poraries with  the  same  passion  for  exactness.  It  was  a  queer 
thing  that  they  were  possessed  of  the  smallest  details  of  scenes 
which  are  usually  enacted  without  witnesses.  It  was  really  as 
though  the  persons  concerned  had  been  the  first  to  give  exact 
information  to  the  public  out  of  their  great  devotion  to  the 
truth. 

Christophe  was  more  and  more  embarrassed  and  tried  to  talk 
to  his  neighbors  of  something  else;  but  nobody  listened  to  him. 
At  first  they  asked  him  a  few  vague  questions  about  Germany — 
questions  which,  to  his  amazement,  displayed  the  almost  com- 
plete ignorance  of  these  distinguished  and  apparently  cultured 
young  men  concerning  the  most  elementary  things  of  their  work 
— literature  and  art — outside  Paris;  at  most  they  had  heard 
of  a  few  great  names:  Hauptmann,  Sudermann,  Liebermann, 
Strauss  (David,  Johann,  Richard),  and  they  picked  their  way 
gingerly  among  them  for  fear  of  getting  mixed..  If  they  had 
questioned  Christophe  it  was  from  politeness  rather  than  from 
curiosity:  they  had  no  curiosity:  they  hardly  seemed  to  notice 
his  replies :  and  they  hurried  back  at  once  to  the  Parisian  topics 
which  were  regaling  the  rest  of  the  company. 

Christophe  timidly  tried  to  talk  of  music.  Not  one  of  these 
men  of  letters  was  a  musician.  At  heart  they  considered  music 
an  inferior  art.  But  the  growing  success  of  music  during  the 
last  few  years  had  made  them  secretly  uneasy :  and  since  it  was 
the  fashion  they  pretended  to  be  interested  in  it.  They  frothed 
especially  about  a  new  opera  and  declared  that  music  dated 
from  its  performance,  or  at  least  the  new  era  in  music.  This 
idea  made  things  easy  for  their  ignorance  and  snobbishness,  for 
it  relieved  them  of  the  necessity  of  knowing  anything  else. 


34  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

The  author  of  the  opera,  a  Parisian,  whose  name  Christophe 
heard  for  the  first  time,  had,  said  some,  made  a  clean  sweep 
of  all  that  had  gone  before  him,  cleaned  up,  renovated,  and 
recreated  music.  Christophe  started  at  that.  He  asked 
nothing  better  than  to  believe  in  genius.  But  such  a  genius  as 
that,  a  genius  who  had  at  one  swoop  wiped  out  the  past.  .  .  . 
Good  heavens !  He  must  be  a  lusty  lad :  how  the  devil  had  he 
done  it?  He  asked  for  particulars.  The  others,  who  would 
have  been  hard  put  to  it  to  give  any  explanation  and  were 
disconcerted  by  Christophe,  referred  him  to  the  musician 
of  the  company,  Theophile  Goujart,  the  great  musical  critic, 
who  began  at  once  to  talk  of  sevenths  and  ninths.  Goujart 
knew  music  much  as  Sganarelle  knew  Latin.  .  .  . 

"...   You  don't  know  Latin?" 

"So." 

(With  enthusiasm)  "  Cabricias,  arci  thuram,  catalamus, 
singulariter  .  .  .  bonus,  bona,  bonum." 

Finding  himself  with  a  man  who  "  understood  Latin  '•'  he 
prudently  took  refuge  in  the  chatter  of  esthetics.  From  that 
impregnable  fortress  he  began  to  bombard  Beethoven,  Wagner, 
and  classical  art,  which  was  not  before  the  house  (but  in  France 
it  is  impossible  to  praise  an  artist  without  making  as  an  offer- 
ing a  holocaust  of  all  those  who  are  unlike  him).  He  an- 
nounced the  advent  of  a  new  art  which  trampled  under  foot 
the  conventions  of  the  past.  He  spoke  of  a  new  musical  lan- 
guage which  had  been  discovered  by  the  Christopher  Columbus 
of  Parisian  music,  and  he  said  it  made  an  end  of  the  language 
of  the  classics :  that  was  a  dead  language. 

Christophe  reserved  his  opinion  of  this  reforming  genius  to 
wait  until  he  had  seen  his  work  before  he  said  anything:  but 
in  spite  of  himself  he  felt  an  instinctive  distrust  of  this  musical 
Baal  to  whom  all  music  was  sacrificed.  He  was  scandalized 
to  hear  the  Masters  so  spoken  of:  and  he  forgot  that  he  had 
said  much  the  same  sort  of  thing  in  Germany.  He  who  at 
home  had  thought  himself  a  revolutionary  in  art,  he  who  had 
scandalized  others  by  the  boldness  of  his  judgments  and  the 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  35 

frankness  of  his  expressions,  felt,  as  soon  as  he  heard  these 
words  spoken  in  France,  that  he  was  at  heart  a  conservative. 
He  tried  to  argue,  and  was  tactless  enough  to  speak,  not  like  a 
man  of  culture,  who  advances  arguments  without  exposition, 
but  as  a  professional,  bringing  out  disconcerting  facts.  He 
did  not  hesitate  to  plunge  into  technical  explanations:  and  his 
voice,  as  he  talked,  struck  a  note  which  was  well  calculated 
to  offend  the  ears  of  a  company  of  superior  persons  to  whom 
his  arguments  and  the  vigor  with  which  he  supported  them 
were  alike  ridiculous.  The  critic  tried  to  demolish  him  with 
an  attempt  at  wit,  and  to  end  the  discussion  which  had  shown 
Christophe  to  his  stupefaction  that  he  had  to  deal  with  a  man 
who  did  not  in  the  least  know  what  he  was  talking  about.  And 
so  they  came  to  the  opinion  that  the  German  was  pedantic  and 
superannuated:  and  without  knowing  anything  about  it  they 
decided  that  his  music  was  detestable.  But  Christophe's  bizarre 
personality  had  made  an  impression  on  the  company  of  young 
men,  and  with  their  quickness  in  seizing  on  the  ridiculous  they 
had  marked  the  awkward,  violent  gestures  of  his  thin  arms 
with  their  enormous  hands,  and  the  furious  glances  that  darted 
from  his  eyes  as  his  voice  rose  to  a  falsetto.  Sylvain  Kohn  saw 
to  it  that  his  friends  were  kept  amused. 

Conversation  had  deserted  literature  in  favor  of  women.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  they  were  only  two  aspects  of  the  same  subject : 
for  their  literature  was  concerned  with  nothing  but  women, 
and  their  women  were  concerned  with  nothing  but  literature, 
they  were  so  much  taken  up  with  the  affairs  and  men  of  letters. 

They  spoke  of  one  good  lady,  well  known  in  Parisian  society, 
who  had,  it  was  said,  just  married  her  lover  to  her  daughter, 
the  better  to  keep  him.  Christophe  squirmed  in  his  chair,  and 
tactlessly  made  a  face  of  disgust.  Kohn  saw  it,  and  nudged  his 
neighbor  and  pointed  out  that  the  subject  seemed  to  excite 
the  German — that  no  doubt  he  was  longing  to  know  the  lady. 
Christophe  blushed,  muttered  angrily,  and  finally  said  hotly 
that  such  women  ought  to  be  whipped.  His  proposition  was 
received  with  a  shout  of  Homeric  laughter:  and  Sylvain  Kohn 


36  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

cooingly  protested  that  no  man  should  touch  a  woman,  even 
with  a  flower,  etc.,  etc.  (In  Paris  he  was  the  very  Knight  of 
Love.)  Christophe  replied  that  a  woman  of  that  sort  was 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a  bitch,  and  that  there  was  only  one 
remedy  for  vicious  dogs:  the  whip.  They  roared  at  him. 
Christophe  said  that  their  gallantry  was  hypocritical,  and  that 
those  who  talked  most  of  their  respect  for  women  were  those 
who  possessed  the  least  of  it:  and  he  protested  against  these 
scandalous  tales.  They  replied  that  there  was  no  scandal  in 
it,  and  that  it  was  only  natural:  and  they  were  all  agreed 
that  the  heroine  of  the  story  was  not  only  a  charming  woman, 
but  the  Woman,  par  excellence.  The  German  waxed  indignant. 
Sylvain  Kohn  asked  him  slyly  what  he  thought  Woman  was 
like.  Christophe  felt  that  they  were  pulling  his  leg  and  laying 
a  trap  for  him:  but  he  fell  straight  into  it  in  the  violent  ex- 
pression of  his  convictions.  He  began  to  explain  his  ideas  on 
love  to  these  bantering  Parisians.  He  could  not  find  his  words, 
floundered  about  after  them,  and  finally  fished  up  from  the 
phrases  he  remembered  such  impossible  words,  such  enormities, 
that  he  had  all  his  hearers  rocking  with  laughter,  while  all  the 
time  he  was  perfectly  and  admirably  serious,  never  bothered 
about  them,  and  was  touchingly  impervious  to  their  ridicule :  for 
he  could  not  help  seeing  that  they  were  making  fun  of  him. 
At  last  he  tied  himself  up  in  a  sentence,  could  not  extricate 
himself,  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table,  and  was  silent. 

They  tried  to  bring  him  back  into  the  discussion:  he  scowled 
and  did  not  flinch,  but  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
ashamed  and  irritated.  He  did  not  open  his  lips  again,  ex- 
cept to  eat  and  drink,  until  the  dinner  was  over.  He  drank 
enormously,  unlike  the  Frenchmen,  who  only  sipped  their  wine. 
His  neighbor  wickedly  encouraged  him,  and  went  on  filling  his 
glass,  which  he  emptied  absently.  But,  although  he  was  not 
used  to  these  excesses,  especially  after  the  weeks  of  privation 
through  which  he  had  passed,  he  took  his  liquor  well,  and  did 
not  cut  so  ridiculous  a  figure  as  the  others  hoped.  He  sat  there 
lost  in  thought :  they  paid  no  attention  to  him ;  they  thought  he 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  37 

was  made  drowsy  by  the  wine.  He  was  exhausted  by  the  ef- 
fort of  following  the  conversation  in  French,  and  tired  of  hear- 
ing about  nothing  but  literature — actors,  authors,  publishers, 
the  chatter  of  the  coulisses  and  literary  life :  everything  seemed 
to  be  reduced  to  that.  Amid  all  these  new  faces  and  the  buzz 
of  words  he  could  not  fix  a  single  face,  nor  a  single  thought. 
His  short-sighted  eyes,  dim  and  dreamy,  wandered  slowly  round 
the  table,  and  they  rested  on  one  man  after  another  without 
seeming  to  see  them.  And  yet  he  saw  them  better  than  any  one, 
though  he  himself  was  not  conscious  of  it.  He  did  not,  like 
these  Jews  and  Frenchmen,  peck  at  the  things  he  saw  and  dis- 
sect them,  tear  them  to  rags,  and  leave  them  in  tiny,  tiny  pieces. 
Slowly,  like  a  sponge,  he  sucked  up  the  essence  of  men  and 
women,  and  bore  away  their  image  in  his  soul.  He  seemed 
to  have  seen  nothing  and  to  remember  nothing.  It  was  only 
long  afterwards — hours,  often  days — when  he  was  alone,  gazing 
in  upon  himself,  that  he  saw  that  he  had  borne  away  a  whole 
impression. 

But  for  the  moment  he  seemed  to  be  just  a  German  boor, 
stuffing  himself  with  food,  concerned  only  with  not  missing  a 
mouthful.  And  he  heard  nothing  clearly,  except  when  he 
heard  the  others  calling  each  other  by  name,  and  then,  with  a 
silly  drunken  insistency,  he  wondered  why  so  many  French- 
men have  foreign  names:  Flemish,  German,  Jewish,  Levantine, 
Anglo-  or  Spanish-American. 

He  did  not  notice  when  they  got  up  from  the  table.  He 
went  on  sitting  alone:  and  he  dreamed  of  the  Rhenish  hills, 
the  great  woods,  the  tilled  fields,  the  meadows  by  the  water- 
side, his  old  mother.  Most  of  the  others  had  gone.  At  last 
he  thought  of  going,  and  got  up,  too,  without  looking  at  any- 
body, and  went  and  took  down  his  hat  and  cloak,  which  were 
hanging  by  the  door.  When  he  had  put  them  on  he  was  turn- 
ing away  without  saying  good-night,  when  through  a  half-open 
door  he  saw  an  object  which  fascinated  him :  a  piano.  He  had 
not  touched  a  musical  instrument  for  weeks.  He  went  in  and 
lovingly  touched  the  keys,  sat  down  just  as  he  was,  with  his 


38  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

hat  on  his  head  and  his  cloak  on  his  shoulders,  and  began  to 
play.  He  had  altogether  forgotten  where  he  was.  He  did  not 
notice  that  two  men  crept  into  the  room  to  listen  to  him.  One 
was  Sylvain  Kohn,  a  passionate  lover  of  music — God  knows 
why!  for  he  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it,  and  he  liked  bad 
music  just  as  well  as  good.  The  other  was  the  musical  critic, 
Theophile  Goujart.  He — it  simplifies  matters  so  much — 
neither  understood  nor  loved  music :  but  that  did  not  keep  him 
from  talking  about  it.  On  the  contrary:  nobody  is  so  free 
in  mind  as  the  man  who  knows  nothing  of  what  he  is  talking 
about:  for  to  such  a  man  it  does  not  matter  whether  he  says 
one  thing  more  than  another. 

Theophile  Goujart  was  tall,  strong,  and  muscular:  he  had 
a  black  beard,  thick  curls  on  his  forehead,  which  was  lined 
with  deep  inexpressive  wrinkles,  short  arms,  short  legs,  a  big 
chest:  a  type  of  woodman  or  porter  of  the  Auvergne.  He  had 
common  manners  and  an  arrogant  way  of  speaking.  He  had 
gone  into  music  through  politics,  at  that  time  the  only  road  to 
success  in  France.  He  had  attached  himself  to  the  fortunes  of  a 
Minister  to  whom  he  had  discovered  that  he  was  distantly 
related — a  son  "  of  the  bastard  of  his  apothecary."  Ministers 
are  not  eternal,  and  when  it  seemed  that  the  day  of  his  Minister 
was  over  Theophile  Goujart  deserted  the  ship,  taking  with  him 
all  that  he  could  lay  his  hands  on,  notably  several  orders:  for 
he  loved  glory.  Tired  of  politics,  in  which  for  some  time  past 
he  had  received  various  snubs,  both  on  his  own  account  and  on 
that  of  his  patron,  he  looked  out  for  a  shelter  from  the  storm,  a 
restful  position  in  which  he  could  annoy  others  without  being 
himself  annoyed.  Everything  pointed  to  criticism.  Just  at 
that  moment  there  fell  vacant  the  post  of  musical  critic  to  one 
of  the  great  Parisian  papers.  The  previous  holder  of  the  post, 
a  young  and  talented  composer,  had  been  dismissed  because  he 
insisted  on  saying  what  he  thought  of  the  authors  and  their 
work.  Goujart  had  never  taken  any  interest  in  music,  and 
knew  nothing  at  all  about  it :  he  was  chosen  without  a  moment's 
hesitation.  They  had  had  enough  of  competent  critics:  with 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  39 

Goujart  there  was  at  least  nothing  to  fear:  he  did  not  attach 
an  absurd  importance  to  his  opinions:  he  was  always  at  the 
editor's  orders,  and  ready  to  comply  with  a  slashing  article  or 
enthusiastic  approbation.  That  he  was  no  musician  was  a 
secondary  consideration.  Everybody  in  France  knows  a  little 
about  music.  Goujart  quickly  acquired  the  requisite  knowl- 
edge. His  method  was  quite  simple:  it  consisted  in  sitting  at 
every  concert  next  to  some  good  musician,  a  composer  if  pos- 
sible, and  getting  him  to  say  what  he  thought  of  the  works 
performed.  At  the  end  of  a  few  months  of  this  apprenticeship, 
he  knew  his  job :  the  fledgling  could  fly.  He  did  not,  it  is  true, 
soar  like  an  eagle:  and  God  knows  what  howlers  Goujart  com- 
mitted with  the  greatest  show  of  authority  in  his  paper!  He 
listened  and  read  haphazard,  stirred  the  mixture  up  well  in  his 
sluggish  brains,  and  arrogantly  laid  down  the  law  for  others; 
he  wrote  in  a  pretentious  style,  interlarded  with  puns,  and 
plastered  over  with  an  aggressive  pedantry :  he  had  the  mind  of 
a  schoolmaster.  Sometimes,  every  now  and  then,  he  drew 
down  on  himself  cruel  'replies:  then  he  shammed  dead,  and 
took  good  care  not  to  answer  them.  He  was  a  mixture  of  cun- 
ning and  thick-headedness,  insolent  or  groveling  as  circum- 
stances demanded.  He  cringed  to  the  masters  who  had  an  of- 
ficial position  or  an  established  fame  (he  had  no  other  means 
of  judging  merit  in  music).  He  scorned  everybody  else,  and 
exploited  writers  who  were  starving.  He  was  no  fool. 

In  spite  of  his  reputation  and  the  authority  he  had  ac- 
quired, he  knew  in  his  heart  of  hearts  that  he  knew  nothing 
about  music:  and  he  recognized  that  Christophe  knew  a  great 
deal  about  it.  Nothing  would  have  induced  him  to  say  so: 
but  it  was  borne  in  upon  him.  And  now  he  heard  Christophe 
play :  and  he  made  great  efforts  to  understand  him,  looking  ab- 
sorbed, profound,  without  a  thought  in  his  head:  he  could 
not  see  a  yard  ahead  of  him  through  the  fog  of  sound,  and  he 
wagged  his  head  solemnly  as  one  who  knew  and  adjusted  the 
outward  and  visible  signs  of  his  approval  to  the  fluttering  of 
the  eyelids  of  Sylvain  Kohn,  who  found  it  hard  to  stand  still. 


40  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

At  last  Christophe,  emerging  to  consciousness  from  the  fumes 
of  wine  and  music,  became  dimly  aware  of  the  pantomime  going 
on  behind  his  back:  he  turned  and  saw  the  two  amateurs  of 
music.  They  rushed  at  him  and  violently  shook  hands  with 
him — Sylvain  Kohn  gurgling  that  he  had  played  like  a  god, 
Goujart  declaring  solemnly  that  he  had  the  left  hand  of  Rubin- 
stein and  the  right  hand  of  Paderewski  (or  it  might  be  the 
other  way  round).  Both  agreed  that  such  talent  ought  not  to 
be  hid  under  a  bushel,  and  they  pledged  themselves  to  reveal  it. 
And,  incidentally,  they  were  both  resolved  to  extract  from  it 
as  much  honor  and  profit  as  possible. 

From  that  day  on  Sylvain  Kohn  took  to  inviting  Christophe 
to  his  rooms,  and  put  at  his  disposal  his  excellent  piano,  which 
he  never  used  himself.  Christophe,  who'  was  bursting  with  sup- 
pressed music,  did  not  need  to  be  urged,  and  accepted:  and  for 
a  time  he  made  good  use  of  the  invitation. 

At  first  all  went  well.  Christophe  was  only  too  happy  to 
play:  and  Sylvain  Kohn  was  tactful  enough  to  leave  him  to 
play  in  peace.  He  enjoyed  it  thoroughly  himself.  By  one  of 
those  queer  phenomena  which  must  be  in  everybody's  observa- 
tion, the  man,  who  was  no  musician,  no  artist,  cold-hearted  and 
devoid  of  all  poetic  feeling  and  real  kindness,  was  enslaved 
sensually  by  Christophe's  music,  which  he  did  not  understand, 
though  he  found  in  it  a  strongly  voluptuous  pleasure.  Un- 
fortunately, he  could  not  hold  his  tongue.  He  had  to  talk, 
loudly,  while  Christophe  was  playing.  He  had  to  underline 
the  music  with  affected  exclamations,  like  a  concert  snob,  or 
else  he  passed  ridiculous  comment  on  it.  Then  Christophe 
would  thump  the  piano,  and  declare  that  he  could  not  go  on  like 
that.  Kohn  would  try  hard  to  be  silent :  but  he  could  not  do  it : 
at  once  he  would  begin  again  to  sniffle,  sigh,  whistle,  beat  time, 
hum,  imitate  the  various  instruments.  And  when  the  piece  was 
ended  he  would  have  burst  if  he  had  not  given  Christophe  the 
benefit  of  his  inept  comment. 

He  was  a  queer  mixture  of  German  sentimentality,  Parisian 
humbug,  and  intolerable  fatuousness.  Sometimes  he  expressed 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  41 

second-hand  precious  opinions;  sometimes  he  made  extravagant 
comparisons;  and  then  he  would  make  dirty,  obscene  remarks, 
or  propound  some  insane  nonsense.  By  way  of  praising 
Beethoven,  he  would  point  out  some  trickery,  or  read  a  lasciv- 
ious sensuality  into  his  music.  The  Quartet  in  C  Minor 
seemed  to  him  jolly  spicy.  The  sublime  Adagio  of  the  Ninth 
Symphony  made  him  think  of  Cherubino.  After  the  three 
crashing  chords  at  the  opening  of  the  Symphony  in  C  Minor, 
he  called  out :  "  Don't  come  in !  I've  some  one  here."  He  ad- 
mired the  Battle  of  Heldenleben  because  he  pretended  that  it 
was  like  the  noise  of  a  motor-car.  And  always  he  had  some 
image  to  explain  each  piece,  a  puerile  incongruous  image. 
Really,  it  seemed  impossible  that  he  could  have  any  love  for 
music.  However,  there  was  no  doubt  about  it:  he  really  did 
love  it:  at  certain  passages  to  which  he  attached  the  most 
ridiculous  meanings  the  tears  would  come  into  his  eyes.  But 
after  having  been  moved  by  a  scene  from  Wagner,  he  would 
strum  out  a  gallop  of  Offenbach,  or  sing  some  music-hall  ditty 
after  the  Ode  to  Joy.  Then  Christophe  would  bob  about  and 
roar  with  rage.  But  the  worst  of  all  to  bear  was  not  when 
Sylvain  Kohn  was  absurd  so  much  as  when  he  was  trying  to  be 
profound  and  subtle,  when  he  was  trying  to  impress  Chris- 
tophe, when  it  was  Hamilton  speaking,  and  not  Sylvain  Kohn. 
Then  Christophe  would  scowl  blackly  at  him,  and  squash  him 
with  cold  contempt,  which  hurt  Hamilton's  vanity:  very  often 
these  musical  evenings  would  end  in  a  quarrel.  But  Kohn 
would  forget  it  next  day,  and  Christophe,  sorry  for  his  rude- 
ness, would  make  a  point  of  going  back. 

That  would  not  have  mattered  much  if  Kohn  had  been  able 
to  refrain  from  inviting  his  friends  to  hear  Christophe.  But 
he  could  not  help  wanting  to  show  off  his  musician.  The  first 
time  Christophe  found  in  Kohn's  rooms  three  or  four  little  Jews 
and  Kohn's  mistress — a  -large  florid  woman,  all  paint  and 
powder,  who  repeated  idiotic  jokes  and  talked  about  her  food, 
and  thought  herself  a  musician  because  she  showed  her  legs 
every  evening  in  the  Revue  of  the  Variete's — Christophe  looked 


42  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

black.  Next  time  he  told  Sylvain  Kohn  curtly  that  he  would 
never  again  play  in  his  rooms.  Sylvain  Kohn  swore  by  all  his 
gods  that  he  would  not  invite  anybody  again.  But  he  did  so 
by  stealth,  and  hid  his  guests  in  the  next  room.  Naturally,  Chris- 
tophe  found  that  out,  and  went  away  in  a  fury,  and  this  time 
did  not  return. 

And  yet  he  had  to  accommodate  Kohn,  who  had  introduced 
him  to  various  cosmopolitan  families,  and  found  him  pupils. 

A  few  days  after  Theophile  Goujart  hunted  Christophe  up 
in  his  lair.  He  did  not  seem  to  mind  his  being  in  such 
a  horrible  place.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  charming.  He 
said: 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear  a  little  music 
from  time  to  time:  and  as  I  have  tickets  for  everything,  I 
came  to  ask  if  you  would  care  to  come  with  me." 

Christophe  was  delighted.  He  was  glad  of  the  kindly  at- 
tention, and  thanked  him  effusively.  Goujart  was  a  different 
man  from  what  he  had  been  at  their  first  meeting.  He  had 
dropped  his  conceit,  and,  man  to  man,  he  was  timid,  docile, 
anxious  to  learn.  It  was  only  when  they  were  with  others 
that  he  resumed  his  superior  manner  and  his  blatant  tone  of 
voice.  His  eagerness  to  learn  had  a  practical  side  to  it.  He 
had  no  curiosity  about  anything  that  was  not  actual.  He  wanted 
to  know  what  Christophe  thought  of  a  score  he  had  received 
which  he  would  have  been  hard  put  to  it  to  write  about,  for 
he  could  hardly  read  a  note. 

They  went  to  a  symphony  concert.  They  had  to  go  in  by 
the  entrance  to  a  music-hall.  They  went  down  a  winding 
passage  to  an  ill-ventilated  hall:  the  air  was  stifling:  the  seats 
were  very  narrow,  and  placed  too  close  together:  part  of  the 
audience  was  standing  and  blocking  up  every  way  out: — the 
uncomfortable  French.  A  man  who  looked  as  though  he  were 
hopelessly  bored  was  racing  through  a  Beethoven  symphony  as 
though  he  were  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  the  end  of  it.  The  voluptu- 
ous strains  of  a  stomach-dance  coming  from  the  music-hall 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  43 

next  door  were  mingled  with  the  funeral  march  of  the  Eroica. 
People  kept  coming  in  and  taking  their  seats,  and  turning  their 
glasses  on  the  audience.  As  soon  as  the  last  person  had  ar- 
rived, they  began  to  go  out  again.  Christophe  strained  every 
nerve  to  try  and  follow  the  thread  of  the  symphony  through  the 
babel:  and  he  did  manage  to  wrest  some  pleasure  from  it — 
(for  the  orchestra  was  skilful,  and  Christophe  had  been  de- 
prived of  symphony  music  for  a  long  time) — and  then  Goujart 
took  his  arm  and,  in  the  middle  of  the  concert,  said : 
"  Now  let  us  go.  We'll  go  to  another  concert." 
Christophe  frowned:  but  he  made  no  reply  and  followed  his 
guide.  They  went  half  across  Paris,  and  then  reached  another 
hall,  that  smelled  of  stables,  in  which  at  other  times  fairy  plays 
and  popular  pieces  were  given — (in  Paris  music  is  like  those 
poor  workingmen  who  share  a  lodging:  when  one  of  them 
leaves  the  bed,  the  other  creeps  into  the  warm  sheets).  No  air, 
of  course :  since  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV  the  French  have  con- 
sidered air  unhealthy:  and  the  ventilation  of  the  theaters,  like 
that  of  old  at  Versailles,  makes  it  impossible  for  people  to 
breathe.  A  noble  old  man,  waving  his  arms  like  a  lion- 
tamer,  was  letting  loose  an  act  of  Wagner:  the  wretched  beast 
— the  act — was  like  the  lions  of  a  menagerie,  dazzled  and 
cowed  by  the  footlights,  so  that  they  have  to  be  whipped  to 
be  reminded  that  they  are  lions.  The  audience  consisted  of 
female  Pharisees  and  foolish  women,  smiling  inanely.  After 
the  lion  had  gone  through  its  performance,  and  the  tamer  had 
bowed,  and  they  had  both  been  rewarded  by  the  applause  of 
the  audience,  Goujart  suggested  that  they  should  go  to  yet  an- 
other concert.  But  this  time  Christophe  gripped,  the  arms  of 
his  stall,  and  declared  that  he  would  not  budge:  he  had  had 
enough  of  running  from  concert  to  concert,  picking  up  the 
crumbs  of  a  symphony  and  scraps  of  a  concert  on  the  way. 
In  vain  did  Goujart  try  to  explain  to  him  that  musical  criti- 
cism in  Paris  was  a  trade  in  which  it  was  more  important 
to  see  than  to  hear.  Christophe  protested  that  music  was  not 
written  to  be  heard  in  a  cab,  and  needed  more  concentra- 


44  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

tion.  Such  a  hotch-potch  of  concerts  was  sickening  to  him: 
one  at  a  time  was  enough  for  him. 

He  was  much  surprised  at  the  extraordinary  number  of 
concerts  in  Paris.  Like  most  Germans,  he  thought  that  music 
held  a  subordinate  place  in  France:  and  he  expected  that  it 
would  be  served. up  in  small  delicate  portions.  By  way  of  a 
beginning,  he  was  given  fifteen  concerts  in  seven  days.  There 
was  one  for  every  evening  in  the  week,  and  often  two  or  three 
an  evening  at  the  same  time  in  different  quarters  of  the  city. 
On  Sundays  there  were  four,  all  at  the  same  time.  Christophe 
marveled  at  this  appetite  for  music.  And  he  was  no  less 
amazed  at  the  length  of  the  programs.  Till  then  he  had 
thought  that  his  fellow-countrymen  had  a  monopoly  of  these 
orgies  of  sound  which  had  more  than  once  disgusted  him 
in  Germany.  He  saw  now  that  the  Parisians  could  have  given 
them  points  in  the  matter  of  gluttony.  They  were  given  full 
measure:  two  symphonies,  a  concerto,  one  or  two  overtures,  an 
act  from  an  opera.  And  they  came  from  all  sources:  German, 
Eussian,  Scandinavian,  French — beer,  champagne,  orgeat,  wine 
— they  gulped  down  everything  without  winking.  Christophe 
was  amazed  that  these  indolent  Parisians  should  have  had  such 
capacious  stomachs.  They  did  not  suffer  for  it  at  all.  It  was 
the  cask  of  the  Danaides.  It  held  nothing. 

It  was  not  long  before  Christophe  perceived  that  this  mass 
of  music  amounted  to  very  little  really.  He  saw  the  same 
faces  and  heard  the  same  pieces  at  every  concert.  Their  copious 
programs  moved  in  a  circle.  Practically  nothing  earlier 
than  Beethoven.  Practically  nothing  later  than  Wagner.  And 
what  gaps  between  them !  It  seemed  as  though  music  were  re- 
duced to  five  or  six  great  German  names,  three  or  four  French 
names,  and,  since  the  Franco-Eussian  alliance,  half  a  dozen 
Muscovites.  None  of  the  old  French  Masters.  None  of  the 
great  Italians.  None  of  the  German  giants  of  the  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  centuries.  No  contemporary  German  music, 
with  the  single  exception  of  Eichard  Strauss,  who  was  more 
acute  than  the  rest,  and  came  once  a  year  to  plant  his  new 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  45 

works  on  the  Parisian  public.  No  Belgian  music.  No  Tschek 
music.  But,  most  surprising  of  all,  practically  no  contem- 
porary French  music.  And  yet  everybody  was  talking  about 
it  mysteriously  as  a  thing  that  would  revolutionize  the  world. 
Christophe  was  yearning  for  an  opportunity  of  hearing  it:  he 
was  very  curious  about  it,  and  absolutely  without  prejudice:  he 
was  longing  to  hear  new  music,  and  to  admire  the  works  of 
genius.  But  he  never  succeeded  in  hearing  any  of  it:  for  he 
did  not  count  a  few  short  pieces,  quite  cleverly  written,  but  cold 
and  brain-spun,  to  which  he  had  not  listened  very  attentively. 

While  he  was  waiting  to  form  an  opinion,  Christophe  tried 
to  find  out  something  about  it  from  musical  criticism. 

That  was  not  easy.  It  was  like  the  Court  of  King  Petaud. 
Not  only  did  the  various  papers  lightly  contradict  each  other: 
but  they  contradicted  themselves  in  different  articles — almost  on 
different  pages.  To  read  them  all  was  enough  to  drive  a  man 
crazy.  Fortunately,  the  critics  only  read  their  own  articles,  and 
the  public  did  not  read  any  of  them.  But  Christophe,  who 
wanted  to  gain  a  clear  idea  about  French  musicians,  labored 
hard  to  omit  nothing:  and  he  marveled  at  the  agility  of  the 
critics,  who  darted  about  in  a  sea  of  contradictions  like  fish  in 
water. 

But  amid  all  these  divergent  opinions  one  thing  struck  him: 
the  pedantic  manner  of  most  of  the  critics.  Who  was  it  said 
that  the  French  were  amiable  fantastics  who  believed  in  nothing? 
Those  whom  Christophe  saw  were  more  hag-ridden  by  the 
science  of  music — even  when  they  knew  nothing — than  all  the 
critics  on  the  other  side  of  the  Ehine. 

At  that  time  the  French  musical  critics  had  set  about  learn- 
ing what  music  was.  There  were  even  a  few  who  knew  some- 
thing about  it:  they  were  men  of  original  thought,  who  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  think  about  their  art,  and  to  think  for 
themselves.  Naturally,  they  were  not  very  well  known:  they 
were  shelved  in  their  little  reviews:  with  only  one  or  two  ex- 
ceptions, the  newspapers  were  not  for  them.  They  were  honest 


46  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

men — intelligent,  interesting,  sometimes  driven  by  their  isola- 
tion to  paradox  and  the  habit  of  thinking  aloud,  intolerance,  and 
garrulity.  The  rest  had  hastily  learned  the  rudiments  of  har- 
mony: and  they  stood  gaping  in  wonder  at  their  newly  acquired 
knowledge.  Like  Monsieur  Jourdain  when  he  learned  the 
rules  of  grammar,  they  marvelled  at  their  knowledge : 

" D,  a,  Da;  F,  a,  Fa;  R,  a,  Ra.  ...  Ah!  How  fine  it 
is!  .  .  .  Ah!  How  splendid  it  is  to  know  something!  .  .  ." 

They  only  babbled  of  theme  and  counter-theme,  of  harmonies 
and  resultant  sounds,  of  consecutive  ninths  and  tierce  major. 
When  they  had  labeled  the  succeeding  harmonies  which  made 
up  a  page  of  music,  they  proudly  mopped  their  brows:  they 
thought  they  had  explained  the  music,  and  almost  believed  that 
they  had  written  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  had  only  repeated 
it  in  school  language,  like  a  boy  making  a  grammatical  analysis 
of  a  page  of  Cicero.  But  it  was  so  difficult  for  the  best  of  them 
to  conceive  music  as  a  natural  language  of  the  soul  that,  when 
they  did  not  make  it  an  adjunct  to  painting,  they  dragged  it 
into  the  outskirts  of  science,  and  reduced  it  to  the  level  of  a 
problem  in  harmonic  construction.  Some  who  were  learned 
enough  took  upon  themselves  to  show  a  thing  or  two  to  past 
musicians.  They  found  fault  with  Beethoven,  and  rapped  Wag- 
ner over  the  knuckles.  They  laughed  openly  at  Berlioz  and 
Gluck.  Nothing  existed  for  them  just  then  but  Johann  Se- 
bastian Bach,  and  Claude  Debussy.  And  Bach,  who  had  lately 
been  roundly  abused,  was  beginning  to  seem  pedantic,  a  periwig, 
and  in -fine,  a  hack.  Quite  distinguished  men  extolled  Rameau 
in  mysterious  terms — Rameau  and  Couperin,  called  the  Great. 

There  were  tremendous  conflicts  waged  between  these  learned 
men.  They  were  all  musicians:  but  as  they  all  affected  differ- 
ent styles,  each  of  them  claimed  that  his  was  the  only  true 
style,  and  cried  "  Raca !  "  to  that  of  their  colleagues.  They  ac- 
cused each  other  of  sham  writing  and  sham  culture,  and 
hurled  at  each  other's  heads  the  words  "  idealism  "  and  "  ma- 
terialism," "  symbolism  "  and  "  verism,"  "  subjectivism  "  and 
"objectivism."  Christophe  thought  it  was  hardly  worth  while 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  47 

leaving  Germany  to  find  the  squabbles  of  the  Germans  in  Paris. 
Instead  of  being  grateful  for  having  good  music  presented  in 
so  many  different  fashions,  they  would  only  tolerate  their  own 
particular  fashion:  and  a  new  Lutrin,  a  fierce  war,  divided 
musicians  into  two  hostile  camps,  the  camp  of  counterpoint 
and  the  camp  of  harmony.  Like  the  Gros-boutiens  and  the 
Petits-boutiens,  one  side  maintained  with  acrimony  that  music 
should  be  read  horizontally,  and  the  other  that  it  should  be 
read  vertically.  One  party  would  only  hear  of  full-sounding 
chords,  melting  concatenations,  succulent  harmonies:  they 
spoke  of  music  as  though  it  were  a  confectioner's  shop.  The 
other  party  would  not  hear  of  the  ear,  that  trumpery  organ, 
being  considered :  music  was  for  them  a  lecture,  a  Parliamentary 
assembly,  in  which  all  the  orators  spoke  at  once  without  both- 
ering about  their  neighbors,  and  went  on  talking  until  they 
had  done:  if  people  could  not  hear,  so  much  the  worse  for 
them !  They  could  read  their  speeches  next  day  in  the  Official 
Journal :  music  was  made  to  be  read,  and  not  to  be  heard.  When 
Christophe  first  heard  of  this  quarrel  between  the  Horizontalists 
and  the  Verticalists,  he  thought  they  were  all  mad.  When  he 
was  summoned  to  join  in  the  fight  between  the  army  of  Suc- 
cession and  the  army  of  Superposition,  he  replied,  with  his 
usual  formula,  which  was  very  different  from  that  of  Sosia: 

"  Gentlemen,  I  am  everybody's  enemy." 

And  when  they  insisted,  saying: 

"Which  matters  most  in  music,  harmony  or  counterpoint?" 

He  replied: 

"  Music.     Show  me  what  you  have  done." 

They  were  all  agreed  about  their  own  music.  These  intrepid 
warriors  who,  when  they  were  not  pummeling  each  other,  were 
whacking  away  at  some  dead  Master  whose  fame  had  en- 
dured too  long,  were  reconciled  by  the  one  passion  which  was 
common  to  them  all:  an  ardent  musical  patriotism.  France 
was  to  them  the  great  musical  nation.  They  were  perpetually 
proclaiming  the  decay  of  Germany.  That  did  not  hurt  Chris- 
tophe. He  had  declared  so  himself,  and  therefore  was  not  in  a 


48  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

position  to  contradict  them.  But  he  was  a  little  surprised  to 
hear  of  the  supremacy  of  French  music :  there  was,  in  fact,  very 
little  trace  of  it  in  the  past.  And  yet  French  musicians  main- 
tained that  their  art  had  been  admirable  from  the  earliest 
period.  By  way  of  glorifying  French  music,  they  set  to  work 
to  throw  ridicule  on  the  famous  men  of  the  last  century,  with 
the  exception  of  one  Master,  who  was  very  good  and  very  pure — 
and  a  Belgian.  Having  done  that  amount  of  slaughter,  they 
were  free  to  admire  the  archaic  Masters,  who  had  been  forgot- 
ten, while  a  certain  number  of  them  were  absolutely  unknown. 
Unlike  the  lay  schools  of  France  which  date  the  world  from  the 
French  Revolution,  the  musicians  regarded  it  as  a  chain  of 
mighty  mountains,  to  be  scaled  before  it  could  be  possible  to 
look  back  on  the  Golden  Age  of  music,  the  Eldorado  of  art. 
After  a  long  eclipse  the  Golden  Age  was  to  emerge  again:  the 
hard  wall  was  to  crumble  away:  a  magician  of  sound  was  to 
call  forth  in  full  flower  a  marvelous  spring:  the  old  tree  of 
music  was  to  put  forth  young  green  leaves :  in  the  bed  of  har- 
mony thousands  of  flowers  were  to  open  their  smiling  eyes  upon 
the  new  dawn :  and  silvery  trickling  springs  were  to  bubble  forth 
with  the  vernal  sweet  song  of  streams — a  very  idyl. 

Christophe  was  delighted.  But  when  he  looked  at  the  bills 
of  the  Parisian  theaters,  he  saw  the  names  of  Meyerbeer, 
Gounod,  Massenet,  and  Mascagni  and  Leoncavallo — names  with 
which  he  was  only  too  familiar:  and  he  asked  his  friends  if  all 
this  brazen  music,  with  its  girlish  rapture,  'its  artificial  flowers, 
like  nothing  so  much  as  a  perfumery  shop,  was  the  garden  of 
Armide  that  they  had  promised  him.  They  were  hurt  and 
protested:  if  they  were  to  be  believed,  these  things  were  the 
last  vestiges  of  a  moribund  age:  no  one  attached  any  value  to 
them.  But  the  fact  remained  that  Cavalleria  Rusticana  flour- 
ished at  the  Opera  Comique,  and  Pagliacci  at  the  Opera:  Mas- 
senet and  Gounod  were  more  frequently  performed  than  any- 
body else,  and  the  musical  trinity — Mignon,  Les  Huguenots, 
and  Faust — had  safely  crossed  the  bar  of  the  thousandth  per- 
formance. But  these  were  only  trivial  accidents:  there  was 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  49 

no  need  to  go  and  see  them.  When  some  untoward  fact  up- 
sets a  theory,  nothing  is  more  simple  than  to  ignore  it.  The 
French  critics  shut  their  eyes  to  these  blatant  works  and  to 
the  public  which  applauded  them:  and  only  a  very  little  more 
was  needed  to  make  them  ignore  the  whole  music-theater  in 
France.  The  music-theater  was  to  them  a  literary  form,  and 
therefore  impure.  (Being  all  literary  men,  they  set  a  ban  on 
literature.)  Any  music  that  was  expressive,  descriptive,  sug- 
gestive— in  short,  any  music  with  any  meaning — was  con- 
demned as  impure.  In  every  Frenchman  there  is  a  Robespierre. 
He  must  be  for  ever  chopping  the  head  off  something  or  some- 
body to  purify  it.  The  great  French  critics  only  recognized 
pure  music :  the  rest  they  left  to  the  rabble. 

Christophe  was  rather  mortified  when  he  thought  how  vul- 
gar his  taste  must  be.  But  he  found  some  comfort  in  the  dis- 
covery that  all  these  musicians  who  despised  the  theater  spent 
their  time  in  writing  for  it:  there  was  not  one  of  them  who 
did  not  compose  operas.  But  no  doubt  that  was  also  a  trivial 
accident.  They  were  to  be  judged,  as  they  desired,  by 
their  pure  music.  Christophe  looked  about  for  their  pure 
music. 

Theophile  Goujart  took  him  to  the  concerts  of  a  Society 
dedicated  to  the  national  art.  There  the  new  glories  of  French 
music  were  elaborated  and  carefully  hatched.  It  was  a  club, 
a  little  church,  with  several  side-chapels.  Each  chapel  had  its 
saint,  each  saint  his  devotees,  who  blackguarded  the  saint  in 
the  next  chapel.  It  was  some  time  before  Christophe  could 
differentiate  between  the  various  saints.  Naturally  enough,  be- 
ing accustomed  to  a  very  different  sort  of  art,  he  was  at  first 
baffled  by  the  new  music,  and  the  more  he  thought  he  under- 
stood it,  the  farther  was  he  from  a  real  understanding. 

It  all  seemed  to  him  to  be  bathed  in  a  perpetual  twilight. 
It  was  a  dull  gray  ground  on  which  were  drawn  lines,  shad- 
ing off  and  blurring  into  each  other,  sometimes  starting  from 
the  mist,  and  then  sinking  back  into  it  again.  Among  all  these 


60  JEAJST-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

lines  there  were  stiff,  crabbed,  and  cramped  designs,  as  though 
they  were  drawn  with  a  set-square — patterns  with  sharp  cor- 
ners, like  the  elbow  of  a  skinny  woman.  There  were  patterns 
in  curves  floating  and  curling  like  the  smoke  of  a  cigar.  But 
they  were  all  enveloped  in  the  gray  light.  Did  the  sun  never 
shine  in  France?  Christophe  had  only  had  rain  and  fog  since 
his  arrival,  and  was  inclined  to  believe  so;  but  it  is  the  artist's 
business  to  create  sunshine  when  the  sun  fails.  These  men  lit 
up  their  little  lanterns,  it  is  true :  but  they  were  like  the  glow- 
worm's lamp,  giving  no  warmth  and  very  little  light.  The 
titles  of  their  works  were  changed:  they  dealt  with  Spring,  the 
South,  Love,  the  Joy  of  Living,  Country  Walks;  but  the  music 
never  changed:  it  was  uniformly  soft,  pale,  enervated,  anemic, 
wasting  away.  It  was  then  the  mode  in  France,  among  the 
fastidious,  to  whisper  in  music.  And  they  were  quite  right: 
for  as  soon  as  they  tried  to  talk  aloud  they  shouted:  there 
was  no  mean.  There  was  no  alternative  but  distinguished 
somnolence  and  melodramatic  declamation. 

Christophe  shook  off  the  drowsiness  that  was  creeping  over 
him,  and  looked  at  his  program;  and  he  was  surprised  to  read 
that  the  little  puffs  of  cloud  floating  across  the  gray  sky  claimed 
to  represent  certain  definite  things.  For,  in  spite  of  theory,  all 
their  pure  music  was  almost  always  program  music,  or  at  least 
music  descriptive  of  a  certain  subject.  It  was  in  vain  that  they 
denounced  literature:  they  needed  the  support  of  a  literary 
crutch.  Strange  crutches  they  were,  too,  as  a  rule!  Chris- 
tophe observed  the  odd  puerility  of  the  subjects  which  they 
labored  to  depict — orchards,  kitchen-gardens,  farmyards,  mu- 
sical menageries,  a  whole  Zoo.  Some  musicians  transposed  for 
orchestra  or  piano  the  pictures  in  the  Louvre,  or  the  frescoes 
of  the  Opera:  they  turned  into  music  Cuyp,  Baudry,  and  Paul 
Potter:  explanatory  notes  helped  the  hearer  to  recognize  the 
apple  of  Paris,  a  Dutch  inn,  or  the  crupper  of  a  white  horse. 
To  Christophe  it  was  like  the  production  of  children  obsessed 
by  images,  who,  not  knowing  how  to  draw,  scribble  down  in 
their  exercise-books  anything  that  comes  into  their  heads,  and 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  51 

naively  write  down  under  it  in  large  letters  an  inscription  to 
the  effect  that  it  is  a  house  or  a  tree. 

But  besides  these  blind  image-fanciers  who  saw  with  their 
ears,  there  were  the  philosophers:  they  discussed  metaphysical 
problems  in  music:  their  symphonies  were  composed  of  the 
struggle  between  abstract  principles  and  stated  symbols  or  re- 
ligions. And  in  their  operas  they  affected  to  study  the  judicial 
and  social  questions  of  the  day:  the  Declaration  of  the  Rights 
of  Woman  and  the  Citizen,  elaborated  by  the  metaphysicians 
of  the  Butte  and  the  Palais-Bourbon.  They  did  not  shrink 
from  bringing  the  question  of  divorce  on  to  the  platform  to- 
gether with  the  inquiry  into  the  birth-rate  and  the  separation 
of  the  Church  and  State.  Among  them  were  to  be  found 
lay  symbolists  and  clerical  symbolists.  They  introduced 
philosophic  rag-pickers,  sociological  grisettes,  prophetic  bakers, 
and  apostolic  fishermen  to  the  stage.  Goethe  spoke  of  the 
artists  of  his  day,  "  who  reproduced  the  ideas  of  Kant  in  al- 
legorical pictures."  The  artists  of  Christophe's  day  wrote  so- 
ciology in  semi-quavers.  Zola,  Nietzsche,  Maeterlinck,  Barres, 
Jaures,  Mendes,  the  Gospel,  and  the  Moulin  Rouge,  all  fed  the 
cistern  whence  the  writers  of  operas  and  symphonies  drew  their 
ideas.  Many  of  them,  intoxicated  by  the  example  of  Wagner, 
cried :  "  And  I,  too,  am  a  poet !  "  And  with  perfect  assurance 
they  tacked  on  to  their  music  verses  in  rhyme,  or  unrhymed, 
written  in  the  style  of  an  elementary  school  or  a  decadent 
feuilleton. 

All  these  thinkers  and  poets  were  partisans  of  pure 
music.  But  they  preferred  talking  about  it  to  writing  it.  And 
yet  they  did  sometimes  manage  to  write  it.  Then  they  wrote 
music  that  was  not  intended  to  say  anything.  Unfortunately, 
they  often  succeeded :  their  music  was  meaningless — at  least, 
to  Christophe.  It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  he  had  not  the 
key  to  it. 

In  order  to  understand  the  music  of  a  foreign  nation  a  man 
must  take  the  trouble  to  learn  the  language,  and  not  make 
up  his  mind  beforehand  that  he  knows  it.  Christophe,  like 


52  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

every  good  German,  thought  he  knew  it.  That  was  excusable. 
Many  Frenchmen  did  not  understand  it  any  more  than  he. 
Like  the  Germans  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV,  who  tried  so 
hard  to  speak  French  that  in  the  end  they  forgot  their  own 
language,  the  French  musicians  of  the  nineteenth  century  had 
taken  so  much  pains  to  unlearn  their  language  that  their  music 
had  become  a  foreign  lingo.  It  was  only  of  recent  years  that  a 
movement  had  sprung  up  to  speak  French  in  France.  They 
did  not  all  succeed:  the  force  of  habit  was  very  strong:  and 
with  a  few  exceptions  their  French  was  Belgian,  or  still  smacked 
faintly  of  Germany.  It  was  quite  natural,  therefore,  that  a 
German  should  be  mistaken,  and  declare,  with  his  usual  assur- 
ance, that  it  was  very  bad  German,  and  meant  nothing,  since 
he  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

Christophe  was  in  exactly  that  case.  The  symphonies  of  the 
French  seemed  to  him  to  be  abstract,  dialectic,  and  musical 
themes  were  opposed  and  superposed  arithmetically  in  them: 
their  combinations  and  permutations  might  just  as  well  have 
been  expressed  in  figures  or  the  letters  of  the  alphabet.  One 
man  would  construct  a  symphony  on  the  progressive  develop- 
ment of  a  sonorous  formula  which  did  not  seem  to  be  complete 
until  the  last  page  of  the  last  movement,  so  that  for  nine- 
tenths  of  the  work  it  never  advanced  beyond  the  grub  stage  of 
its  existence.  Another  would  erect  variations  on  a  theme  which 
was  not  stated  until  the  end,  so  that  the  symphony  gradually 
descended  from  the  complex  to  the  simple.  They  were  very 
clever  toys.  But  a  man  would  need  to  be  both  very  old  and 
very  young  to  be  able  to  enjoy  them.  They  had  cost  their  in- 
ventors untold  effort.  They  took  years  to  write  a  fantasy. 
They  worried  their  hair  white  in  the  search  for  new  combina- 
tions of  chords — to  express  .  .  .  ?  No  matter !  New  ex- 
pressions. As  the  organ  creates  the  need,  they  say,  so  the  ex- 
pression must  in  the  end  create  the  idea:  the  chief  thing  is 
that  the  expression  should  be  novel.  Novelty  at  all  costs! 
They  had  a  morbid  horror  of  anything  that  "  had  been  said." 
The  bes.t  of  them  were  paralyzed  by  it  all.  They  seemed  always 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  53 

to  be  keeping  a  fearful  guard  on  themselves,  and  crossing  out 
what  they  had  written,  wondering :  "  Good  Lord ! .  Where  did 
I  read  that  ?  "  .  .  .  There  are  some  musicians — especially  in 
Germany — who  spend  their  time  in  piecing  together  other  peo- 
ple's music.  The  musicians  of  France  were  always  looking  out 
at  every  bar  to  see  that  they  had  not  included  in  their  cata- 
logues melodies  that  had  already  been  used  by  others,  and  eras- 
ing, erasing,  changing  the  shape  of  the  note  until  it  was  like  no 
known  note,  and  even  ceased  to  be  like  a  note  at  all. 

But  they  did  not  take  Christophe  in:  in  vain  did  they  muffle 
themselves  up  in  a  complicated  language,  and  make  super- 
human and  prodigious  efforts,  go  into  orchestral  fits,  or 
cultivate  inorganic  harmonies,  an  obsessing  monotony,  declama- 
tions a  la  Sarah  Bernhardt,  beginning  in  a  minor  key,  and  go- 
ing on  for  hours  plodding  along  like  mules,  half  asleep,  along 
the  edge  of  the  slippery  slope — always  under  the  mask  Chris- 
tophe found  the  souls  of  these  men,  cold,  weary,  horribly 
scented,  like  Gounod  and  Massenet,  but  even  less  natural.  And 
he  repeated  the  unjust  comment  on  the  French  of  Gluck: 

"  Let  them  be :  they  always  go  back  to  their  giddy-go-round." 

Only  they  did  try  so  hard  to  be  learned.  They  took  popular 
songs  as  themes  for  learned  symphonies,  like  dissertations  for 
the  Sorbonne.  That  was  the  great  game  at  the  time.  All 
sorts  and  kinds  of  popular  songs,  songs  of  all  nations,  were 
pressed  into  the  service.  And  they  worked  them  up  into  things 
like  the  Ninth  Symphony  and  the  Quartet  of  Cesar  Franck, 
only  much  more  difficult.  A  musician  would  conceive  quite  a 
simple  air.  At  once  he  would  mix  it  up  with  another,  which 
meant  nothing  at  all,  though  it  jarred  hideously  with  the  first. 
And  all  these  people  were  obviously  so  calm,  so  perfectly  bal- 
anced! .  .  . 

And  there  was  a  young  conductor,  properly  haggard  and 
dressed  for  the  part,  who  produced  these  works:  he  flung  him- 
self about,  darted  lightnings,  made  Michael  Angelesque  gestures 
as  though  he  were  summoning  up  the  armies  of  Beethoven  or 
Wagner.  The  audience,  which  was  composed  of  society  people, 


54  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

was  bored  to  tears,  though  nothing  would  have  induced  them 
to  renounce  the  honor  of  paying  a  high  price  for  such  glorious 
boredom :  and  there  were  young  tyros  who  were  only  too  glad  to 
bring  their  school  knowledge  into  play  as  they  picked  up  the 
threads  of  the  music,  and  they  applauded  with  an  enthusiasm 
as  frantic  as  the  gestures  of  the  conductor,  and  the  fearful 
noise  of  the  music.  .  .  . 

"What  rot!"  said  Christopher.  (For  he  was  well  up  in 
Parisian  slang  by  now.) 

But  it  is  easier  to  penetrate  the  mystery  of  Parisian  slang 
than  the  mystery  of  Parisian  music.  Christophe  judged  it 
with  the  passion  which  he  brought  to  bear  on  everything,  and 
the  native  incapacity  of  the  Germans  to  understand  French 
art.  At  least,  he  was  sincere,  and  only  asked  to  be  put  right  if 
he  was  mistaken.  And  he  did  not  regard  himself  as  bound  by 
his  judgment,  but  left  it  open  to  any  new  impression  that 
might  alter  it. 

As  matters  stood,  he  readily  admitted  that  there  was  much 
talent  in  the  music  he  heard,  interesting  stuff,  certain  odd 
happy  rhythms  and  harmonies,  an  assortment  of  fine  materials, 
mellow  and  brilliant,  glittering  colors,  a  perpetual  outpouring 
of  invention  and  cleverness.  Christophe  was  entertained  by  it, 
and  learned  a  thing  or  two.  All  these  small  masters  had  in- 
finitely more  freedom  of  thought  than  the  musicians  of  Ger- 
many: they  bravely  left  the  highroad  and  plunged  through 
the  woods.  They  did  their  best  to  lose  themselves.  But  they 
were  so  clever  that  they  could  not  manage  it.  Some  of  them 
found  themselves  on  the  road  again  in  twenty  yards.  Others 
tired  at  once,  and  stopped  wherever  they  might  be.  There 
were  a  few  who  almost  discovered  new  paths,  but  instead  of 
following  them  up  they  sat  down  at  the  edge  of  the  wood  and 
fell  to  musing  under  a  tree.  What  they  most  lacked  was  will- 
power, force:  they  had  all  the  gifts  save  one — vigor  and  life. 
And  all  their  multifarious  efforts  were  confusedly  directed,  and 
were  lost  on  the  road.  It  was  only  rarely  that  these  artists 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  55 

became  conscious  of  the  nature  of  their  efforts,  and  could 
join  forces  to  a  common  and  a  given  end.  It  was  the  usual  re- 
sult of  French  anarchy,  which  wastes  the  enormous  wealth  of 
talent  and  good  intentions  through  the  paralyzing  influence 
of  its  uncertainty  and  contradictions.  With  hardly  an  ex- 
ception, all  the  great  French  musicians,  like  Berlioz  and  Saint- 
Saens — to  mention  only  the  most  recent — have  been  hopelessly 
muddled,  self-destructive,  and  forsworn,  for  want  of  energy, 
want  of  faith,  and,  above  all,  for  want  of  an  inward  guide. 

Christophe,  with  the  insolence  and  disdain  of  the  latter-day 
German,  thought: 

"  The  French  do  no  more  than  fritter  away  their  energy  in 
inventing  things  which  they  are  incapable  of  using.  They 
need  a  master  of  another  race,  a  Gluck  or  a  Napoleon,  to  turn 
their  Revolutions  to  any  account." 

And  he  smiled  at  the  notion  of  an  Eighteenth  of  Brumaire. 

And  yet,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  anarchy,  there  was  a 
group  striving  to  restore  order  and  discipline  to  the  minds 
of  artists  and  public.  By  way  of  a  beginning,  they  had  taken 
a  Latin  name  reminiscent  of  a  clerical  institution  which  had 
flourished  thirteen  or  fourteen  centuries  ago  at  the  time  of 
the  great  Invasion  of  the  Goths  and  Vandals.  Christophe  was 
rather  surprised  at  their  going  back  so  far.  It  was  a  good 
thing,  certainly,  to  dominate  one's  generation.  But  it  looked 
as  though  a  watch-tower  fourteen  centuries  high  might  be  a 
little  inconvenient,  and  more  suitable  perhaps  for  observing 
the  movements  of  the  stars  than  those  of  the  men  of  the  pres- 
ent day.  But  Christophe  was  soon  reassured  when  he  saw  that 
the  sons  of  St.  Gregory  spent  very  little  time  on  their  tower: 
they  only  went  up  it  to  ring  the  bells,  and  spent  the  rest  of 
their  time  in  the  church  below.  It  was  some  time  before  Chris- 
tophe, who  attended  some  of  their  services,  saw  that  it  was  a 
Catholic  cult:  he  had  been  sure  at  the  outset  that  their  rites 
were  those  of  some  little  Protestant  sect.  The  audience  grov- 
eled: the  disciples  were  pious,  intolerant,  aggressive  on  the 


56  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

smallest  provocation:  at  their  head  was  a  man  of  a  cold  sort 
of  purity,  rather  childish  and  wilful,  maintaining  the  integrity 
of  his  doctrine,  religious,  moral,  and  artistic,  explaining  in 
abstract  terms  the  Gospel  of  music  to  the  small  number  of  the 
Elect,  and  calmly  damning  Pride  and  Heresy.  To  these  two 
states  of  mind  he  attributed  every  defect  in  art  and  every  vice 
of  humanity:  the  Renaissance,  the  Reformation,  and  present- 
day  Judaism,  which  he  lumped  together  in  one  category.  The 
Jews  of  music  were  burned  in  effigy  after  being  ignominiously 
dressed.  The  colossal  Handel  was  soundly  trounced.  Only 
Johann  Sebastian  Bach  attained  salvation  by  the  grace  of  the 
Lord,  who  recognized  that  he  had  been  a  Protestant  by  mistake. 
The  temple  of  the  Rue  Saint-Jacques  fulfilled  an  apostolic 
function:  souls  and  music  found  salvation  there.  The  rules 
of  genius  were  taught  there  most  methodically.  Laborious 
pupils  applied  the  formulas  with  infinite  pains  and  absolute 
certainty.  It  looked  as  though  by  their  pious  labors  they 
were  trying  to  regain  the  criminal  levity  of  their  ancestors: 
the  Aubers,  the  Adams,  and  the  trebly  damned,  the  diabolical 
Berlioz,  the  devil  himself,  diabolus  in  musica.  With  laudable 
ardor  and  a  sincere  piety  they  spread  the  cult  of  the  ac- 
knowledged masters.  In  ten  years  the  work  they  had  to  show 
was  considerable:  French  music  was  transformed.  Not  only 
the  French  critics,  but  the  musicians  themselves  had  learned 
something  about  music.  There  were  now  composers,  and  even 
virtuosi,  who  were  acquainted  with  the  works  of  Bach.  And 
that  was  not  so  common  even  in  Germany!  But,  above  all,  a 
great  effort  had  been  made  to  combat  the  stay-at-home  spirit 
of  the  French,  who  will  shut  themselves  up  in  their  homes, 
and  cannot  be  induced  to  go  out.  So  their  music  lacks  air: 
it  is  sealed-chamber  music,  sofa  music,  music  with  no  sort  of 
vigor.  Think  of  Beethoven  composing  as  he  strode  across  coun- 
try, rushing  down  the  hillsides,  swinging  along  through  sun 
and  rain,  terrifying  the  cattle  with  his  wild  shouts  and  gestures ! 
There  was  no  danger  of  the  musicians  of  Paris  upsetting  their 
neighbors  with  the  noise  of  their  inspiration,  like  the  bear  of 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  57 

Bonn.  When  they  composed  they  muted  the  strings  of  their 
thought:  and  the  heavy  hangings  of  their  rooms  prevented  any 
sound  from  outside  breaking  in  upon  them. 

The  Schola  had  tried  to  let  in  fresh  air,  and  had  opened  the 
windows  upon  the  past.  But  only  on  the  past.  The  windows 
were  opened  upon  a  courtyard,  not  into  the  street.  And  it  was 
not  much  use.  Hardly  had  they  opened  the  windows  than 
they  closed  the  shutters,  like  old  women  afraid  of  catching 
cold.  And  there  came  up  a  gust  or  two  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
Bach,  Palestrina,  popular  songs.  But  what  was  the  good  of 
that?  The  room  still  smelt  of  stale  air.  But  really  that 
suited  them  very  well:  they  were  afraid  of  the  great  modern 
draughts  of  air.  And  if  they  knew  more  than  other  people, 
they  also  denied  more  in  art.  Their  music  took  on  a  doctrinal 
character:  there  was  no  relaxation:  their  concerts  were  history 
lectures,  or  a  string  of  edifying  examples.  Advanced  ideas  be- 
came academic.  The  great  Bach,  he  whose  music  is  like  a  tor- 
rent, was  received  into  the  bosom  of  the  Church  and  then 
tamed.  His  music  was  submitted  to  a  transformation  in  the 
minds  of  the  Schola  very  like  the  transformation  to  which  the 
savagely  sensual  Bible  has  been  submitted  in  the  minds  of  the 
English.  As  for  modern  music,  the  doctrine  promulgated  was 
aristocratic  and  eclectic,  an  attempt  to  compound  the  distinctive 
characteristics  of  the  three  or  four  great  periods  of  music  from 
the  sixth  to  the  twentieth  century.  If  it  had  been  possible  to 
carry  it  out,  the  resulting  music  would  have  been  like  those 
hybrid  structures  raised  by  a  Viceroy  of  India  on  his  return 
from  his  travels,  with  rare  materials  collected  in  every  corner 
of  the  earth.  But  the  good  sense  of  the  French  saved  them 
from  any  such  barbarically  erudite  excesses:  they  carefully 
avoided  any  application  of  their  theories:  they  treated  them  as 
Moliere  treated  his  doctors:  they  took  their  prescriptions,  but 
did  not  carry  them  out.  The  best  of  them  went  their  own  way. 
The  rest  of  them  contented  themselves  in  practice  with  very 
intricate  and  difficult  exercises  in  counterpoint:  they  called 
them  sonatas,  quartets,  and  symphonies.  ..."  Sonata,  what 


58  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

do  you  desire  of  me  ?  "  The  poor  thing  desired  nothing  at  all 
except  to  be  a  sonata.  The  idea  behind  it  was  abstract  and 
anonymous,  heavy  and  joyless.  So  might  a  lawyer  conceive 
an  art.  Christophe,  who  had  at  first  been  by  way  of  being 
pleased  with  the  French  for  not  liking  Brahms,  now  thought 
that  there  were  many,  many  little  Brahms  in  France.  These 
laborious,  conscientious,  honest  journeymen  had  many  qualities 
and  virtues.  Christophe  left  them  edified,  but  bored  to  dis- 
traction. It  was  all  very  good,  very  good.  .  .  . 
How  fine  it  was  outside! 

And  yet  there  were  a  few  independent  musicians  in  Paris, 
men  belonging  to  no  school.  They  alone  were  interesting  to 
Christophe.  It  was  only  through  them  that  he  could  gauge 
the  vitality  of  the  art.  Schools  and  coteries  only  express  some 
superficial  fashion  or  manufactured  theory.  But  the  inde- 
pendent men  who  stand  apart  have  more  chance  of  really  dis- 
covering the  ideas  of  their  race  and  time.  It  is  true  that 
that  makes  them  all  the  more  difficult  for  a  foreigner  to  un- 
derstand. 

That  was,  in  fact,  what  happened  when  Christophe  first 
heard  the  famous  work  which  the  French  had  so  extravagantly 
praised,  while  some  of  them  were  announcing  the  coming  of 
the  greatest  musical  revolution  of  the  last  ten  centuries.  (It 
was  easy  for  them  to  talk  about  centuries:  they  knew  hardly 
anything  of  any  except  their  own.) 

Theophile  Goujart  and  Sylvain  Kohn  took  Christophe  to  the 
Opera  Comique  to  hear  Pelleas  and  Melisande.  They  were 
proud  to  display  the  opera  to  him — as  proud  as  though  they 
had  written  it  themselves.  They  gave  Christophe  to  under- 
stand that  it  would  be  the  road  to  Damascus  for  him.  And 
they  went  on  eulogizing  it  even  after  the  piece  had  begun. 
Christophe  shut  them  up  and  listened  intently.  After  the  first 
act  he  turned  to  Sylvain  Kohn,  who  asked  him,  with  glittering 
.eyes : 

".Well,  old  man,  what  do  you  think  of  it? " 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  59 

And  he  said : 

"Is  it  like  that  all  through?" 

«  Yes." 

"  But  it's  nothing." 

Kohn  protested  loudly,  and  called  him  a  Philistine. 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  said  Christophe.  "  No  music.  No  de- 
velopment. No  sequence.  No  cohesion.  Very  nice  harmony. 
Quite  good  orchestral  effects,  quite  good.  But  it's  nothing — 
nothing  at  all.  ..." 

He  listened  through  the  second  act.  Little  by  little  the 
lantern  gathered  light  and  glowed:  and  he  began  to  perceive 
something  through  the  twilight.  Yes :  he  could  understand 
the  sober-minded  rebellion  against  the  Wagnerian  ideal  which 
swamped  the  drama  with  floods  of  music;  but  he  wondered  a 
little  ironically  if  the  ideal  of  sacrifice  did  not  mean  the  sacrifice 
of  something  which  one  does  not  happen  to  possess.  He  felt 
the  easy  fluency  of  the  opera,  the  production  of  an  effect  with 
the  minimum  of  trouble,  the  indolent  renunciation  of  the 
sturdy  effort  shown  in  the  vigorous  Wagnerian  structures. 
And  he  was  quite  struck  by  the  unity  of  it,  the  simple,  modest, 
rather  dragging  declamation,  although  it  seemed  monotonous 
to  him,  and,  to  his  German  ears,  it  sounded  false: — (and  it 
even  seemed  to  him  that  the  more  it  aimed  at  truth  the  more 
it  showed  how  little  the  French  language  was  suited  to  music: 
it  is  too  logical,  too  precise,  too  definite, — a  world  perfect  in 
itself,  but  hermetically  sealed). — However,  the  attempt  was  in- 
teresting, and  Christophe  gladly  sympathized  with  the  spirit 
of  revolt  and  reaction  against  the  over-emphasis  and  violence 
of  Wagnerian  art.  The  French  composer  seemed  to  have  de- 
voted his  attention  discreetly  and  ironically  to  all  the  things 
that  sentiment  and  passion  only  whisper.  He  showed  love 
and  death  inarticulate.  It  was  only  by  the  imperceptible 
throbbing  of  a  melody,  a  little  thrill  from  the  orchestra  that 
was  no  more  than  a  quivering  of  the  corners  of  the  lips,  that 
the  drama  passing  through  the  souls  of  the  characters  waa 
brought  home  to  the  audience.  It  was  as  though  the  artist  were 


60  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

fearful  of  letting  himself  go.  He  had  the  genius  of  taste — 
except  at  certain  moments  when  the  Massenet  slumbering  in  the 
heart  of  every  Frenchman  awoke  and  waxed  lyrical.  Then 
there  showed  hair  that  was  too  golden,  lips  that  were  too  red — 
the  Lot's  wife  of  the  Third  Republic  playing  the  lover.  But 
such  moments  were  the  exception:  they  were  a  relaxation  of 
the  writer's  self-imposed  restraint:  throughout  the  rest  of  the 
opera  there  reigned  a  delicate  simplicity,  a  simplicity  which 
was  not  so  very  simple,  a  deliberate  simplicity,  the  subtle 
flower  of  an  ancient  society.  That  young  Barbarian,  Chris- 
tophe,  only  half  liked  it.  The  whole  scheme  of  the  play,  the 
poem,  worried  him.  He  saw  a  middle-aged  Parisienne  posing 
childishly  and  having  fairy-tales  told  to  her.  It  was  not  the 
Wagnerian  sickliness,  sentimental  and  clumsy,  like  a  girl  from 
the  Rhine  provinces.  But  the  Franco-Belgian  sickliness  was 
not  much  better,  with  its  simpering  parlor-tricks : — "  the  hair," 
"  the  little  father,"  "  the  doves," — and  the  whole  trick  of  mys- 
tery for  the  delectation  of  society  women.  The  soul  of  the 
Parisienne  was  mirrored  in  the  little  piece,  which,  like  a  flat- 
tering picture,  showed  the  languid  fatalism,  the  boudoir  Nir- 
vana, the  soft,  sweet  melancholy.  Nowhere  a  trace  of  will- 
power. No  one  knew  what  he  wanted.  No  one  .knew  what  he 
was  doing. 

"  It  is  not  my  fault !  It  is  not  my  fault !  "  these  grown-up 
children  groaned.  All  through  the  five  acts,  which  took  place 
in  a  perpetual  half-light — forests,  caves,  cellars,  death-cham- 
bers— little  sea-birds  struggled :  hardly  even  that.  Poor  little 
birds!  Pretty  birds,  soft,  pretty  birds.  .  .  .  They  were  so 
afraid  of  too  much  light,  of  the  brutality  of  deeds,  words,  pas- 
sions— life !  Life  is  not  soft  and  pretty.  Life  is  no  kid-glove 
matter.  .  .  . 

Christophe  could  hear  in  the  distance  the  rumbling  of  can- 
non, coming  to  batter  down  that  worn-out  civilization,  that 
perishing  little  Greece. 

Was  it  that  proud  feeling  of  melancholy  and  pity  that  made 
him  in  spite  of  all  sympathize  with  the  opera?  It  interested 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  61 

him  more  than  he  would  admit.  Although  he  went  on  telling 
Sylvain  Kohn,  as  they  left  the  theater,  that  it  was  "  very  fine, 
very  fine,  but  lacking  in  Schwung  (impulse),  and  did  not  con- 
tain enough  music  for  him,"  he  was  careful  not  to  confound 
Pelleas  with  the  other  music  of  the  French.  He  was  attracted 
by  the  lamp  shining  through  the  fog.  And  then  he  saw  other 
lights,  vivid  and  fantastic,  flickering  round  it.  His  attention 
was  caught  by  these  will-o'-the-wisps:  he  would  have  liked  to 
go  near  them  to  find  out  how  it  was  that  they  shone:  but  they 
were  not  easy  to  catch.  These  independent  musicians,  whom 
Christophe  did  not  understand,  were  not  very  approachable. 
They  seemed  to  lack  that  great  need  of  sympathy  which  pos- 
sessed Christophe.  With  a  few  exceptions  they  seemed  to  read 
very  little,  know  very  little,  desire  very  little.  They  almost 
all  lived  in  retirement,  some  outside  Paris,  others  in  Paris,  but 
isolated,  by  circumstances  or  purposely,  shut  up  in  a  narrow 
circle — from  pride,  shyness,  disgust,  or  apathy.  There  were 
very  few  of  them,  but  they  were  split  up  into  rival  groups, 
and  could  not  tolerate  each  other.  They  were  extremely 
susceptible,  and  could  not  bear  with  their  enemies,  or  their 
rivals,  or  even  their  friends,  when  they  dared  to  admire  any 
other  musician  than  themselves,  or  when  they  admired  too 
coldly,  or  too  fervently,  or  in  too  commonplace  or  too  ec- 
centric a  manner.  It  was  extremely  difficult  to  please  them. 
Every  one  of  them  had  actually  sanctioned  a  critic,  armed 
with  letters  patent,  who  kept  a  jealous  watch  at  the  foot  of 
the  statue.  Visitors  were  requested  not  to  touch.  They  did 
not  gain  any  greater  understanding  from  being  understood 
only  by  their  own  little  groups.  They  were  deformed  by  the 
adulation  and  the  opinion  that  their  partisans  and  they  them- 
selves held  of  their  work,  and  they  lost  grip  of  their  art  and 
their  genius.  Men  with  a  pleasing  fantasy  thought  themselves 
reformers,  and  Alexandrine  artists  posed  as  rivals  of  Wagner. 
They  were  almost  all  the  victims  of  competition.  Every  day 
they  had  to  leap  a  little  higher  than  the  day  before,  and, 
especially,  higher  than  their  rivals.  These  exercises  in  high 


62  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE  IN"  PARIS 

jumping  were  not  always  successful,  and  were  certainly  not  at- 
tractive except  to  professionals.  They  took  no  account  of 
the  public,  and  the  public  never  bothered  about  them.  Their 
art  was  out  of  touch  with  the  people,  music  which  was  only  fed 
from  music.  Now,  Christophe  was  under  the  impression, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  that  there  was  no  music  that  had  a  greater 
need  of  outside  support  than  French  music.  That  supple 
climbing  plant  needed  a  prop :  it  could  not  do  without  litera- 
ture, but  did  not  find  in  it  enough  of  the  breath  of  life.  French 
music  was  breathless,  bloodless,  will-less.  It  was  like  a  woman 
languishing  for  her  lover.  But,  like  a  Byzantine  Empress,  slen- 
der and  feeble  in  body,  laden  with  precious  stones,  it  was 
surrounded  with  eunuchs:  snobs,  esthetes,  and  critics.  The 
nation  was  not  musical:  and  the  craze,  so  much  talked  of  dur- 
ing the  last  twenty  3^ears,  for  Wagner,  Beethoven,  Bach,  or 
Debussy,  never  reached  farther  than  a  certain  class.  The 
enormous  increase  in  the  number  of  concerts,  the  flowing  tide 
of  music  at  all  costs,  found  no  real  response  in  the  develop- 
ment of  public  taste.  It  was  just  a  fashionable  craze  confined 
to  the  few,  and  leading  them  astray.  There  was  only  a  handful 
of  people  who  really  loved  music,  and  these  were  not  the 
people  who  were  most  occupied  with  it,  composers  and  critics. 
There  are  so  few  musicians  in  France  who  really  love  music ! 

So  thought  Christophe:  but  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
it  is  the  same  everywhere,  that  even  in  Germany  there  are  not 
many  more  real  musicians,  and  that  the  people  who  matter  in 
art  are  not  the  thousands  who  understand  nothing  about  it, 
but  the  few  who  love  it  and  serve  it  in  proud  humility.  Had 
he  ever  set  eyes  on  them  in  France?  Creators  and  critics — 
the  best  of  them  were  working  in  silence,  far  from  the  racket, 
as  Cesar  Franck  had  done,  and  the  most  gifted  composers  of 
the  day  were  doing,  and  a  number  of  artists  who  would  live 
out  their  lives  in  obscurity,  so  that  some  day  in  the  future 
some  journalist  might  have  the  glory  of  discovering  them  and 
posing  as  their  friend — and  the  little  army  of  industrious  and 
obscure  men  of  learning  who,  without  ambition  and  careless 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  63 

of  their  fame,  were  building  stone  by  stone  the  greatness  of 
the  past  history  of  France,  or,  being  vowed  to  the  musical  edu- 
cation of  the  country,  were  preparing  the  greatness  of  the 
France  of  the  future.  There  were  minds  there  whose  wealth 
and  liberty  and  world-wide  curiosity  would  have  attracted  Chris- 
tophe  if  he  had  been  able  to  discover  them !  But  at  most  he 
only  caught  a  cursory  glimpse  of  two  or  three  of  them:  he 
only  made  their  acquaintance  in  the  villainous  caricatures  of 
their  ideas.  He  saw  only  their  defects  copied  and  exaggerated 
by  the  apish  mimics  of  art  and  the  bagmen  of  the  Press. 

But  what  most  disgusted  him  with  these  vulgarians  of  music 
was  their  formalism.  They  never  seemed  to  consider  anything 
but  form.  Feeling,  character,  life — never  a  word  of  these! 
It  never  seemed  to  occur  to  them  that  every  real  musician 
lives  in  a  world  of  sound,  as  other  men  live  in  a  visible  world, 
and  that  his  days  are  lived  in  and  borne  onward  by  a  flood 
of  music.  Music  is  the  air  he  breathes,  the  sky  above  him. 
Nature  wakes  answering  music  in  his  soul.  His  soul  itself  is 
music:  music  is  in  all  that  it  loves,  hates,  suffers,  fears,  hopes. 
And  when  the  soul  of  a  musician  loves  a  beautiful  body,  it 
sees  music  in  that,  too.  The  beloved  eyes  are  not  blue,  or 
brown,  or  gray :  they  are  music :  their  tenderness  is  like  caressing 
notes,  like  a  delicious  chord.  That  inward  music  is  a  thou- 
sand times  more  rich  than  the  music  that  finds  expression,  and 
the  instrument  is  inferior  to  the  player.  Genius  is  measured 
by  the  power  of  life,  by  the  power  of  evoking  life  through  the 
imperfect  instrument  of  art.  But  to  how  many  men  in  France 
does  that  ever  occur?  To  these  chemists  music  seems  to  be  no 
more  than  the  art  of  resolving  sounds.  They  mistake  the 
alphabet  for  a  book.  Christophe  shrugged  his  shoulders  when 
he  heard  them  say  complacently  that  to  understand  art  it  must 
be  abstracted  from  the  man.  They  were  extraordinarily  pleased 
with  this  paradox :  for  by  it  they  fancied  they  were  proving  their 
own  musical  quality.  And  even  Goujart.  subscribed  to  it — 
Goujart,  the  idiot  who  had  never  been  able  to  understand  how 
people  managed  to  learn  by  heart  a  piece  of  music — (he  had 


64  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

tried  to  get  Christophe  to  explain  the  mystery  to  him) — and 
had  tried  to  prove  to  him  that  Beethoven's  greatness  of  soul 
and  Wagner's  sensuality  had  no  more  to  do  with  their  music 
than  a  painter's  model  has  to  do  with  his  portraits. 

Christophe  lost  patience  with  him,  and  said : 

"  That  only  proves  that  a  beautiful  body  is  of  no  more  artistic 
value  to  you  than  a  great  passion.  Poor  fellow!  .  .  .  You 
have  no  notion  of  the  beauty  given  to  a  portrait  by  the 
beauty  of  a  perfect  face,  or  of  the  glow  of  beauty 
given  to  music  by  the  beauty  of  the  great  soul  which  is  mir- 
rored in  it?  .  .  .  Poor  fellow!  .  .  .  You  are  interested 
only  in  the  handiwork  ?  So  long  as  it  is  well  done  you  are  not 
concerned  with  the  meaning  of  a  piece  of  work.  .  .  .  Poor 
fellow!  .  .  .  You  are  like  those  people  who  do  not  listen  to 
what  an  orator  says,  but  only  to  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and 
watch  his  gestures  without  understanding  them,  and  then  say 
he  speaks  devilish  well.  .  .  .  Poor  fellow!  Poor  wretch! 
.  .  .  Oh,  you  rotten  swine !  " 

But  it  was  not  only  a  particular  theory  that  irritated  Chris- 
tophe; it  was  all  their  theories.  He  was  appalled  by  their 
unending  arguments,  their  Byzantine  discussions,  the  everlast- 
ing talk,  talk,  talk,  of  musicians  about  music,  and  nothing 
else.  It  was  enough  to  make  the  best  of  musicians  heartily 
sick  of  music.  Like  Moussorgski,  Christophe  thought  that  it 
would  be  as  well  for  musicians  every  now  and  then  to  leave 
their  counterpoint  and  harmony  in  favor  of  books  or  experi- 
ence of  life.  Music  is  not  enough  for  a  present-day  musician; 
not  thus  will  he  dominate  his  age  and  raise  his  head  above 
the  stream  of  time.  .  .  .  Life!  All  life!  To  see  every- 
thing, to  know  everything,  to  feel  everything.  To  love,  to 
seek,  to  grasp  Truth — the  lovely  Penthesilea,  Queen  of  the 
Amazons,  whose  teeth  bite  in  answer  to  a  kiss ! 

Away  with  your  musical  discussion-societies,  away  with  your 
chord-factories !  Not  all  the  twaddle  of  the  harmonic  kitchens 
would  ever  help  him  to  find  a  new  harmony  that  was  alive, 
alive,  and  not  a  monstrous  birth. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  65 

He  turned  his  back  on  these  Doctor  Wagners,  brooding  on 
their  alembics  to  hatch  out  some  homunculus  in  bottle:  and, 
running  away  from  French  music,  he  sought  to  enter  literary 
circles  and  Parisian  society.  Like  many  millions  of  people 
in  France,  Christophe  made  his  first  acquaintance  with  mod- 
ern French  literature  through  the  newspapers.  He  wanted 
to  get  the  measure  of  Parisian  thought  as  quickly  as  possible, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  perfect  his  knowledge  of  the  language. 
And  so  he  set  himself  conscientiously  to  read  the  papers  which 
he  was  told  were  most  Parisian.  On  the  first  day  after  a  hor- 
rific chronicle  of  events,  which  filled  several  pages  with  para- 
graphs and  snapshots,  he  read  a  story  about  a  father  and  a 
daughter,  a  girl  of  fifteen:  it  was  narrated  as  though  it  were 
a  matter  of  course,  and  even  rather  moving.  Next  day,  in  the 
same  paper,  he  read  a  story  about  a  father  and  a  son,  a  boy  of 
twelve,  and  the  girl  was  mixed  up  in  it  again.  On  the  fol- 
lowing day  he  read  a  story  about  a  brother  and  a  sister.  Next 
day,  the  story  was  about  two  sisters.  On  the  fifth  day  .  .  . 
On  the  fifth  day  he  hurled  the  paper  away  with  a  shudder,  and 
said  to  Sylvain  Kohn: 

"  But  what's  the  matter  with  you  all  ?     Are  you  ill  ?  " 

Sylvain  Kohn  began  to  laugh,  and  said : 

"  That  is  art." 

Christophe  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

"  You're  pulling  my  leg." 

Kohn  laughed  once  more: 

"  Not  at  all.     Eead  a  little  more." 

And  he  pointed  to  the  report  of  a  recent  inquiry  into  Art 
and  Morality,  which  set  out  that  "  Love  sanctified  everything," 
that  "  Sensuality  was  the  leaven  of  Art,"  that  "  Art  could  not 
be  Immoral,"  that  "  Morality  was  a  convention  of  Jesuit  edu- 
cation," and  that  nothing  mattered  except  "  the  greatness  of 
Desire."  A  number  of  letters  from  literary  men  witnessed  the 
artistic  purity  of  a  novel  depicting  the  life  of  bawds.  Some  of 
the  signatories  were  among  the  greatest  names  in  contem- 
porary literature,  or  the  most  austere  of  critics.  A  domestic 


66  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

poet,  bourgeois  and  a  Catholic,  gave  his  blessing  as  an  artist 
to  a  detailed  description  of  the  decadence  of  the  Greeks.  There 
were  enthusiastic  praises  of  novels  in  which  the  course  of 
Lewdness  was  followed  through  the  ages:  Rome,  Alexandria, 
Byzantium,  the  Italian  and  French  Renaissance,  the  Age  of 
Greatness  .  .  .  Nothing  was  omitted.  Another  cycle  of 
studies  was  devoted  to  the  various  countries  of  the  world: 
conscientious  writers  had  devoted  their  energies,  with  a  monkish 
patience,  to  the  study  of  the  low  quarters  of  the  five  continents. 
And  it  was  no  matter  for  surprise  to  discover  among  these 
geographers  and  historians  of  Pleasure  distinguished  poets  and 
very  excellent  writers.  They  were  only  marked  out  from  the 
rest  by  their  erudition.  In  their  most  impeccable  style  they 
told  archaic  stories,  highly  spiced. 

But  what  was  most  alarming  was  to  see  honest  men  and  real 
artists,  men  who  rightly  enjoyed  a  high  place  in  French  litera- 
ture, struggling  in  such  a  traffic,  for  which  they  were  not  at  all 
suited.  Some  of  them  with  great  travail  wrote,  like  the  rest, 
the  sort  of  trash  that  the  newspapers  serialize.  They  had  to 
produce  it  by  a  fixed  time,  once  or  twice  a  week:  and  it  had 
been  going  on  for  years.  They  went  on  producing  and  pro- 
ducing, long  after  they  had  ceased  to  have  anything  to  say, 
racking  their  brains  to  find  something  new,  something  more 
sensational,  more  bizarre:  for  the  public  was  surfeited  and  sick 
of  everything,  and  soon  wearied  of  even  the  most  wanton 
imaginary  pleasures:  they  had  always  to  go  one  better — better 
than  the  rest,  better  than  their  own  best — and  they  squeezed 
out  their  very  life-blood,  they  squeezed  out  their  guts:  it  was 
a  pitiable  sight,  a  grotesque  spectacle. 

Christophe,  who  did  not  know  the  ins  and  outs  of  that 
melancholy  traffic,  and  if  he  had  known  them  would  not  have 
been  more  indulgent ;  for  in  his  eyes  nothing  in  the  world  could 
excuse  an  artist  for  selling  his  art  for  thirty  pieces  of  sil- 
ver. .  .  . 

(Not  even  to  assure  the  well-being  of  those  whom  he  loves? 

Not  even  then, 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  67 

That  is  not  human. 

It  is  not  a  question  of  being  human;  it  is  a  question  of  be- 
ing a  man.  .  .  .  Human!  .  .  .  May  God  have  mercy  on 
your  white-livered  huinanitarianism,  it  is  so  bloodless!  .  .  . 
No  man  loves  twenty  things  at  once,  no  man  can  serve  many 
gods!  .  .  .) 

.  .  .  Christophe,  who,  in  his  hard-working  life,  had  hardly 
yet  seen  beyond  the  limits  of  his  little  German  town,  could 
have  no  idea  that  this  artistic  degradation,  which  showed  so 
rawly  in  Paris,  was  common  to  nearly  all  the  great  towns :  and 
the  hereditary  prejudices  of  chaste  Germany  against  Latin  im- 
morality awoke  in  him  once  more.  And  yet  Sylvain  Kohn 
might  easily  have  pointed  to  what  was  going  on  by  the  banks 
of  the  Spree,  and  the  impurity  of  Imperial  Germany,  where 
brutality  made  shame  and  degradation  even  more  repulsive. 
But  Sylvain  Kohn  never  thought  of  it :  he  was  no  more  shocked 
by  that  than  by  the  life  of  Paris.  He  thought  ironically: 
"  Every  nation  has  its  little  ways,"  and  the  ways  of  the  world 
in  which  he  lived  seemed  so  natural  to  him  that  Christophe 
could  be  excused  for  thinking  it  was  in  the  nature  of  the  peo- 
ple. And  so,  like  so  many  of  his  compatriots,  he  saw  in  the 
secret  sore  which  is  eating  away  the  intellectual  aristocracies 
of  Europe  the  vice  proper  to  French  art,  and  the  bankruptcy 
of  the  Latin  races. 

Christophe  was  hurt  by  his  first  encounter  with  French  lit- 
erature, and  it  took  him  some  time  to  get  over  it.  And  yet 
there  were  plenty  of  books  which  were  not  solely  occupied 
with  what  one  of  these  writers  has  nobly  called  "the  taste 
for  fundamental  entertainments."  But  he  never  laid  hands 
on  the  best  and  finest  of  them.  Such  books  were  not  written 
for  the  like  of  Sylvain  Kohn  and  his  friends:  they  did  not 
bother  about  them,  and  certainly  Kohn  and  the  rest  never 
bothered  about  the  better  class  of  books :  they  ignored  each 
other.  Sylvain  Kohn  would  never  have  thought  of  mention- 
ing them  to  Christophe.  He  was  quite  sincerely  convinced 
that  his  friends  and  himself  were  the  incarnation  of  French 


68  JEAN-CHR.ISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

Art,  and  thought  there  was  no  talent,  no  art,  no  France  outside 
the  men  who  had  been  consecrated  as  great  by  their  opinion 
and  the  press  of  the  boulevards.  Christophe  knew  nothing 
about  the  poets  who  were  the  glory  of  French  literature,  the 
very  crown  of  France.  Very  few  of  the  novelists  reached  him, 
or  emerged  from  the  ocean  of  mediocre  writers:  a  few  books 
of  Barres  and  Anatole  France.  But  he  was  not  sufficiently 
familiar  with  the  language  to  be  able  to  enjoy  the  universal 
dilettantism,  and  erudition,  and  irony  of  the  one,  or  the  un- 
equal but  superior  art  of  the  other.  He  spent  some  time  in 
watching  the  little  orange-trees  in  tubs  growing  in  the  hot- 
house of  Anatole  France,  and  the  delicate,  perfect  flowers 
clambering  over  the  gravelike  soul  of  Barres.  He  stayed  for 
a  moment  or  two  before  the  genius,  part  sublime,  part  silly, 
of  Maeterlinck:  from  that  there  issued  a  polite  mysticism, 
monotonous,  numbing  like  some  vague  sorrow.  He  shook  him- 
self, and  plunged  into  the  heavy,  sluggish  stream,  the  muddy 
romanticism  of  Zola,  with  whom  he  was  already  acquainted,  and 
when  he  emerged  from  that  it  was  to  sink  back  and  drown  in  a 
deluge  of  literature. 

The  submerged  lands  exhaled  an  odor  di  femina.  The  lit- 
erature of  the  day  teemed  with  effeminate  men  and  women. 
It  is  well  that  women  should  write  if  they  are  sincere  enough  to 
describe  what  no  man  has  yet  seen :  the  depths  of  the  soul  of  a 
woman.  But  only  very  few  dared  do  that:  most  of  them  only 
wrote  to  attract  the  men:  they  were  as  untruthful  in  their 
books  as  in  their  drawing-rooms :  they  jockeyed  their  facts  and 
flirted  with  the  reader.  Since  they  were  no  longer  religious, 
and  had  no  confessor  to  whom  to  tell  their  little  lapses,  they 
told  them  to  the  public.  There  was  a  perfect  shower  of  novels, 
almost  all  scabrous,  all  affected,  written  in  a  sort  of  lisping 
style,  a  style  scented  with  flowers  and  fine  perfumes — sometimes 
too  fine — sometimes  not  fine  at  all — and  the  eternal  stale,  warm, 
sweetish  smell.  Their  books  reeked  of  it.  Christophe  thought, 
like  Goethe :  "  Let  women  do  what  they  like  with  poetry  and 
writing:  but  men  must  not  write  like  women!  That  I  can- 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  69 

not  stand."  He  could  not  help  being  disgusted  by  their  tricks, 
their  sly  coquetry,  their  sentimentality,  which  seemed  to  ex- 
pend itself  by  preference  upon  creatures  hardly  worthy  of  in- 
terest, their  style  crammed  with  metaphor,  their  love-making 
and  sensuality,  their  hotch-potch  of  subtlety  and  brutality. 

But  Christophe  was  ready  to  admit  that  he  was  not  in  a 
position  to  judge.  He  was  deafened  by  the  row  of  this  babel 
of  words.  It  was  impossible  to  hear  the  little  fluting  sounds 
that  were  drowned  in  it  all.  For  even  among  such  books  as 
these  there  were  some,  from  the  pages  of  which,  behind  all  the 
nonsense,  there  shone  the  limpid  sky  and  the  harmonious  out- 
line of  the  hills  of  Attica — so  much  talent,  so  much  grace,  a 
sweet  breath  of  life,  and  charm  of  style,  a  thought  like  the 
voluptuous  women  or  the  languid  boys  of  Perugino  and  the 
young  Raphael,  smiling,  with  half-closed  eyes,  at  their  dream 
of  love.  But  Christophe  was  blind  to  that.  Nothing  could  re- 
veal to  him  the  dominant  tendencies,  the  currents  of  public 
opinion.  Even  a  Frenchman  would  have  been  hard  put  to  it 
to  see  them.  And  the  only  definite  impression  that  he  had  at 
this  time  was  that  of  a  flood  of  writing  which  looked  like  a 
national  disaster.  It  seemed  as  though  everybody  wrote :  men, 
women,  children,  officers,  actors,  society  people,  blackguards. 
It  was  an  epidemic. 

For  the  time  being  Christophe  gave  it  up.  He  felt  that 
such  a  guide  as  Sylvain  Kohn  must  lead  him  hopelessly  astray. 
His  experience  of  a  literary  coterie  in  Germany  gave  him 
very  properly  a  profound  distrust  of  the  people  whom  he  met: 
it  was  impossible  to  know  whether  or  no  they  only  represented 
the  opinion  of  a  few  hundred  idle  people,  or  even,  in  certain 
cases,  whether  or  no  the  author  was  his  own  public.  The 
theater  gave  a  more  exact  idea  of  the  society  of  Paris.  It 
played  an  enormous  part  in  the  daily  life  of  the  city.  It 
was  an  enormous  kitchen,  a  Pantagruelesque  restaurant,  which 
could  not  cope  with  the  appetite  of  the  two  million  inhabitants. 
There  were  thirty  leading  theaters,  without  counting  the  local 
houses,  cafe  concerts,  all  sorts  of  shows — a  hundred  halls,  all 


70  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

giving  performances  every  evening,  and,  every  evening,  almost 
all  full.  A  whole  nation  of  actors  and  officials.  Vast  sums 
were  swallowed  up  in  the  gulf.  The  four  State-aided  theaters 
gave  work  to  three  thousand  people,  and  cost  the  country  ten 
million  francs.  The  whole  of  Paris  re-echoed  with  the  glory 
of  the  play-actors.  It  was  impossible  to  go  anywhere  without 
seeing  innumerable  photographs,  drawings,  caricatures,  repro- 
ducing their  features  and  mannerisms,  .gramophones  reproduc- 
ing their  voices,  and  the  newspapers  their  opinions  on  art  and 
politics.  They  had  special  newspapers  devoted  to  them.  Thqy 
published  their  heroic  and  domestic  Memoirs.  These  big  self- 
conscious  children,  who  spent  their  time  in  aping  each  other, 
these  wonderful  apes  reigned  and  held  sway  over  the  Parisians: 
and  the  dramatic  authors  were  their  chief  ministers.  Chris- 
tophe  asked  Sylvain  Kohn  to  conduct  him  into  the  kingdom 
of  shadows  and  reflections. 

But  Sylvain  Kohn  was  no  safer  as  a  guide  in  that  world 
than  in  the  world  of  books,  and,  thanks  to  him,  Christophe's 
first  impression  was  almost  as  repulsive  as  that  of  his  first 
essay  in  literature.  It  seemed  that  there  was  everywhere  the 
same  spirit  of  mental  prostitution. 

The  pleasure-mongers  were  divided  into  two  schools.  On 
the  one  hand  there  was  the  good  old  way,  the  national  way,  of 
providing  a  coarse  and  unclean  pleasure,  quite  frankly;  a  de- 
light in  ugliness,  strong  meat,  physical  deformities,  a  show  of 
drawers,  barrack-room  jests,  risky  stories,  red  pepper,  high 
game,  private  rooms — "  a  manly  frankness,"  as  those  people  say 
who  try  to  reconcile  looseness  and  morality  by  pointing  out  that, 
after  four  acts  of  dubious  fun,  order  is  restored  and  the  Code 
triumphs  by  the  fact  that  the  wife  is  really  with  the  husband 
whom  she  thinks  she  is  deceiving — (so  long  as  the  law  is  ob- 
served, then  virtue  is  all  right)  : — that  vicious  sort  of  virtue 
which  defends  marriage  by  endowing  it  with  all  the  charm  of 
lewdness: — the  Gallic  way. 

The  other  school  was  in  the  modern  style.    It  was  much 


THE  MAKKET-PLACE  71 

more  subtle  and  much  more  disgusting.  The  Parisianized  Jews 
and  the  Judaicized  Christians  who  frequented  the  theater  had 
introduced  into  it  the  usual  hash  of  sentiment  which  is  the  dis- 
tinctive feature  of  a  degenerate  cosmopolitanism.  Those  sons 
who  blushed  for  their  fathers  set  themselves  to  abnegate  their 
racial  conscience:  and  they  succeeded  only  too  well.  Having 
plucked  out  the  soul  that  was  their  birthright,  all  that  was 
left  them  was  a  mixture  of  the  moral  and  intellectual  values 
of  other  races:  they  made  a  macedoine  of  them,  an  olla  podrida: 
it  was  their  way  of  taking  possession  of  them.  The  men  who 
who  were  at  that  time  in  control  of  the  theaters  in  Paris  were 
extraordinarily  skilful  at  beating  up  filth  and  sentiment,  and 
giving  virtue  a  flavoring  of  vice,  vice  a  flavoring  of  virtue, 
and  turning  upside  down  every  human  relation  of  age,  sex,  the 
family,  and  the  affections.  Their  art,  therefore,  had  an  odor 
sui  generis,  which  smelt  both  good  and  bad  at  once — that  is  to 
say,  it  smelled  very  bad  indeed :  they  called  it  "  amoralism." 

One  of  their  favorite  heroes  at  that  time  was  the  amorous 
old  man.  Their  theaters  presented  a  rich  gallery  of  portraits 
of  the  type :  and  in  painting  it  they  introduced  a  thousand 
pretty  touches.  Sometimes  the  sexagenarian  hero  would  take 
his  daughter  into  his  confidence,  and  talk  to  her  about  his 
mistress:  and  she  would  talk  about  her  lovers:  and  they  would 
give  each  other  friendly  advice :  the  kindly  father  would  aid  his 
daughter  in  her  indiscretions :  and  the  precious  daughter  would 
intervene  with  the  unfaithful  mistress,  beg  her  to  return,  and 
bring  her  back  to  the  fold.  Sometimes  the  good  old  man  would 
listen  to  the  confidences  of  his  mistress:  he  would  talk  to  her 
about  her  lovers,  or,  if  nothing  better  was  forthcoming,  he 
would  listen  to  the  tale  of  her  gallantries,  and  even  take  a 
delight  in  them.  And  there  were  portraits  of  lovers,  distin- 
guished gentlemen,  who  presided  in  the  houses  of  their  former 
mistresses,  and  helped  them  in  their  nefarious  business.  Society 
women  were  thieves.  The  men  were  bawds,  the  girls  were  Les- 
bian. And  all  these  things  happened  in  the  highest  society: 
the  society  of  rich  people — the  only  society  that  mattered.  For 


72  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

that  made  it  possible  to  offer  the  patrons  of  the  theater  dam- 
aged goods  under  cover  of  the  delights  of  luxury.  So  tricked 
out,  it  was  displayed  in  the  market,  to  the  joy  of  old  gentle- 
men and  young  women.  And  it  all  reeked  of  death  and  the 
seraglio. 

Their  style  was  not  less  mixed  than  their  sentiments.  They 
had  invented  a  composite  jargon  of  expressions  from  all  classes 
of  society  and  every  country  under  the  sun — pedantic,  slangy, 
classical,  lyrical,  precious,  prurient,  and  low — a  mixture  of 
bawdy  jests,  affectations,  coarseness,  and  wit,  all  of  which 
seemed  to  have  a  foreign  accent.  Ironical,  and  gifted  with  a 
certain  clownish  humor,  they  had  not  much  natural  wit:  but 
they  were  clever  enough,  and  they  manufactured  their  goods  in 
imitation  of  Paris.  If  the  stone  was  not  always  of  the  first 
water,  and  if  the  setting  was  always  strange  and  overdone, 
at  least  it  shone  in  artificial  light,  and  that  was  all  it  was 
meant  to  do.  They  were  intelligent,  keen,  though  short- 
sighted observers — their  eyes  had  been  dulled  by  centuries  of 
the  life  of  the  counting-house — turning  the  magnifying-glass  on 
human  sentiments,  enlarging  small  things,  not  seeing  big  things. 
With  a  marked  predilection  for  finery,  they  were  incapable  of 
depicting  anything  but  what  seemed  to  their  upstart  snobbish- 
ness the  ideal  of  polite  society:  a  little  group  of  worn-out  rakes 
and  adventurers,  who  quarreled  among  themselves  for  the  pos- 
session of  certain  stolen  moneys  and  a  few  virtueless  females. 

And  yet  upon  occasion  the  real  nature  of  these  Jewish  writers 
would  suddenly  awake,  come  to  the  surface  from  the  depths 
of  their  being,  in  response  to  some  mysterious  echo  called  forth 
by  some  vivid  word  or  sensation.  Then  there  appeared  a  strange 
hotch-potch  of  ages  and  races,  a  breath  of  wind  from  the  Desert, 
bringing  over  the  seas  to  their  Parisian  rooms  the  musty  smell 
of  a  Turkish  bazaar,  the  dazzling  shimmer  of  the  sands,  the 
mirage,  blind  sensuality,  savage  invective,  nervous  disorder 
only  a  hair's-breadth  away  from  epilepsy,  a  destructive  frenzy 
— Samson,  suddenly  rising  like  a  lion — after  ages  of  squatting 
in  the  shade — and  savagely  tearing  down  the  columns  of  the 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  73 

Temple,  which  comes  crashing  down  on  himself  and  on  his 
enemies. 

Christophe  blew  his  nose  and  said  to  Sylvain  Kohn : 

"  There's  power  in  it :  but  it  stinks.  That's  enough !  Let's 
go  and  see  something  else." 

"What?"  asked  Sylvain  Kohn. 

"  France." 

"  That's  it !  "  said  Kohn. 

"  Can't  be,"  replied  Christophe.  "  France  isn't  like 
that." 

"  It's  France,  and  Germany,  too." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  A  nation  that  was  anything  like  that 
wouldn't  last  for  twenty  years:  why,  it's  decomposing  already. 
There  must  be  something  else." 

"  There's  nothing  better." 

"  There  must  be  something  else,"  insisted  Christophe. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn.  "  We  have  fine  people,  of 
course,  and  theaters  for  them,  too.  Is  that  what  you  want? 
We  can  give  you  that." 

He  took  Christophe  to  the  Theatre  Frangais. 

That  evening  they  happened  to  be  playing  a  modern  com- 
edy, in  prose,  dealing  with  some  legal  problem. 

From  the  very  beginning  Christophe  was  baffled  to  make 
out  in  what  sort  of  world  the  action  was  taking  place.  The 
voices  of  the  actors  were  out  of  all  reason,  full,  solemn,  slow, 
formal :  they  rounded  every  syllable  as  though  they  were  giving 
a  lesson  in  elocution,  and  they  seemed  always  to  be  scanning 
Alexandrines  with  tragic  pauses.  Their  gestures  were  solemn 
and  almost  hieratic.  The  heroine,  who  wore  her  gown  as 
though  it  were  a  Greek  peplus,  with  arm  uplifted,  and  head 
lowered,  was  nothing  else  but  Antigone,  and  she  smiled  with 
a  smile  of  eternal  sacrifice,  carefully  modulating  the  lower 
notes  of  her  beautiful  contralto  voice.  The  heavy  father  walked 
about  like  a  fencing-master,  with  automatic  gestures,  a  funereal 
dignity, — romanticism  in  a  frock-coat.  The  juvenile  lead 


74  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

gulped  and  gasped  and  squeezed  out  a  sob  or  two.  The  piece 
was  written  in  the  style  of  a  tragic  serial  story:  abstract 
phrases,  bureaucratic  epithets,  academic  periphrases.  No  move- 
ment, not  a  sound  unrehearsed.  From  beginning  to  end  it  was 
clockwork,  a  set  problem,  a  scenario,  the  skeleton  of  a  play, 
with  not  a  scrap  of  flesh,  only  literary  phrases.  Timid  ideas 
lay  behind  discussions  that  were  meant  to  be  bold:  the  whole 
spirit  of  the  thing  was  hopelessly  middle-class  and  respect- 
able. 

The  heroine  had  divorced  an  unworthy  husband,  by  whom 
she  had  had  a  child,  and  she  had  married  a  good  man  whom 
she  loved.  The  point  was,  that  even  in  such  a  case  as  this 
divorce  was  condemned  by  Nature,  as  it  is  by  prejudice. 
Nothing  could  be  easier  than  to  prove  it:  the  author  contrived 
that  the  woman  should  be  surprised,  for  one  occasion  only,  into 
yielding  to  the  first  husband.  After  that,  instead  of  a  per- 
fectly natural  remorse,  perhaps  a  profound  sense  of  shame,  to- 
gether with  a  greater  desire  to  love  and  honor  the  second  and 
good  husband,  the  author  trotted  out  an  heroic  case  of  con- 
science, altogether  beyond  Nature.  French  writers  never  seem 
to  be  on  good  terms  with  virtue:  they  always  force  the  note 
when  they  talk  of  it :  they  make  it  quite  incredible.  They  always 
seem  to  be  dealing  with  the  heroes  of  Corneille,  and  tragedy 
Kings.  And  are  they  not  Kings  and  Queens,  these  millionaire 
heroes,  and  these  heroines  who  would  not  be  interesting  unless 
they  had  at  least  a  mansion  in  Paris  and  two  or  three  country- 
houses?  For  such  writers  and  such  a  public  wealth  itself  is  a 
beauty,  and  almost  a  virtue. 

The  audience  was  even  more  amazing  than  the  play.  They 
were  never  bored  by  all  the  tiresomely  repeated  improbabilities. 
They  laughed  at  the  good  points,  when  the  actors  said  things 
that  were  meant  to  be  laughed  at:  it  was  made  obvious  that 
they  were  coming,  so  that  the  audience  could  be  ready  to  laugh. 
They  mopped  their  eyes  and  coughed,  and  were  deeply  moved 
when  the  puppets  gasped,  and  gulped,  and  roared,  and  fainted 
away  in  accordance  with  the  hallowed  tragic  ritual. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  75 

"  And  people  say  the  French  are  gay ! "  exclaimed  Chris- 
tophe  as  they  left  the  theater. 

"  There's  a  time  for  everything,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn  chaffingly. 
"You  wanted  virtue.  You  see,  there's  still  virtue  in  France." 

"But  that's  not  virtue!"  cried  Christophe.  "That's 
rhetoric ! " 

"  In  France,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn.  "  Virtue  in  the  theater  is 
always  rhetorical." 

"A  pretorium  virtue,"  said  Christophe,  "and  the  prize  goes 
to  the  best  talker.  I  hate  lawyers.  Have  you  no  poets  in 
France?" 

Sylvain  Kohn  took  him  to  the  poetic  drama. 

There  were  poets  in  France.  There  were  even  great  poets. 
But  the  theater  was  not  for  them.  It  was  for  the  versifiers. 
The  theater  is  to  poetry  what  the  opera  is  to  music.  As  Berlioz 
said :  Sicut  amori  lupanar. 

Christophe  saw  Princesses  who  were  virtuously  promiscuous, 
who  prostituted  themselves  for  their  honor,  who  were  com- 
pared with  Christ  ascending  Calvary: — friends  who  deceived 
their  friends  out  of  devotion  to  them: — glorified  triangular  re- 
lations:— heroic  cuckoldry:  (the  cuckold,  like  the  blessed 
prostitute,  had  become  a  European  commodity:  the  example 
of  King  Mark  had  turned  the  heads  of  the  poets :  like  the  stag 
of  Saint  Hubert,  the  cuckold  never  appeared  without  a  halo.) 
And  Christophe  saw  also  lovely  damsels  torn  between  passion 
and  duty:  their  passion  bade  them  follow  a  new  lover:  duty 
bade  them  stay  with  the  old  one,  an  old  man  who  gave  them 
money  and  was  deceived  by  them.  And  in  the  end  they  plumped 
heroically  for  Duty.  Christophe  could  not  see  how  Duty  dif- 
fered from  sordid  interest:  but  the  public  was  satisfied.  The 
word  Duty  was  enough  for  them :  they  did  not  insist  on  having 
the  thing  itself ;  they  took  the  author's  word  for  it. 

The  summit  of  art  was  reached  and  the  greatest  pleasure 
was  given  when,  most  paradoxically,  sexual  immorality  and 
Corneillian  heroics  could  be  combined.  In  that  way  every 


76  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

need  of  the  Parisian  public  was  satisfied :  mind,  senses,  rhetoric. 
But  it  is  only  just  to  say  that  the  public  was  fonder  even  of 
words  than  of  lewdness.  Eloquence  could  send  it  into  ecstasies. 
It  would  have  suffered  anything  for  a  fine  tirade.  Virtue  or 
vice,  heroics  hobnobbing  with  the  basest  prurience,  there  was 
no  pill  that  it  would  not  swallow  if  it  were  gilded  with  sonorous 
rhymes  and  redundant  words.  Anything  that  came  to  hand 
was  ground  into  couplets,  antitheses,  arguments:  love,  suffer- 
ing, death.  And  when  that  was  done,  they  thought  they  had 
felt  love,  suffering,  and  death.  Nothing  but  phrases.  It  was 
all  a  game.  When  Hugo  brought  thunder  on  to  the  stage,  at 
once  (as  one  of  his  disciples  said)  he  muted  it  so  as  not  to 
frighten  even  a  child.  (The  disciple  fancied  he  was  paying 
him  a  compliment.)  It  was  never  possible  to  feel  any  of  the 
forces  of  Nature  in  their  art.  They  made  everything  polite. 
Just  as  in  music — and  even  more  than  in  music,  which  was  a 
younger  art  in  France,  and  therefore  relatively  more  simple — 
they  were  terrified  of  anything  that  had  been  "  already  said." 
The  most  gifted  of  them  coldly  devoted  themselves  to  working 
contrariwise.  The  process  was  childishly  simple:  they  pitched 
on  some  beautiful  legend  or  fairy-story,  and  turned  it  upside 
down.  Thus,  Bluebeard  was  beaten  by  his  wives,  or  Polyphe- 
mus was  kind  enough  to  pluck  out  his  eye  by  way  of  sacrificing 
himself  to  the  happiness  of  Acis  and  Galatea.  And  they 
thought  of  nothing  but  form.  And  once  more  it  seemed  to 
Christophe  (though  he  was  not  a  good  judge)  that  these  mas- 
ters of  form  were  rather  coxcombs  and  imitators  than  great 
writers  creating  their  own  style  and  giving  breadth  and  depth 
to  their  work. 

They  played  at  being  artists.  They  played  at  being  poets. 
Nowhere  was  the  poetic  lie  more  insolently  reared  than  in  the 
heroic  drama.  They  put  up  a  burlesque  conception  of  a  hero : 

' '  The  great  thing  is  to  have  a  soul  magnificent, 
An  eagel's  eye  ;  broad  brow  like  portico  ;  present 
An  air  of  strength,  grave  mien,  most  touchingly  to  show 
A  heart  that  throbs,  eyes  full  of  dreams  of  worlds  they  know," 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  77 

Verses  like  that  were  taken  seriously.  Behind  the  hocus- 
pocus  of  such  fine-sounding  words,  the  bombast,  the  theatrical 
clash  and  clang  of  the  swords  and  pasteboard  helmets,  there 
was  always  the  incurable  futility  of  a  Sardou,  the  intrepid 
vaudevillist,  playing  Punch  and  Judy  with  history.  When  in 
the  world  was  the  like  of  the  heroism  of  Cyrano  ever  to  be 
found?  These  writers  moved  heaven  and  earth;  they  sum- 
moned from  their  tombs  the  Emperor  and  his  legions,  the 
bandits  of  the  Ligue,  the  condottieri  of  the  Eenaissance,  called 
up  the  human  cyclones  that  once  devastated  the  universe: — just 
to  display  a  puppet,  standing  unmoved  through  frightful  mas- 
sacres, surrounded  by  armies,  soldiers,  and  whole  hosts  of  cap- 
tive women,  dying  of  a  silly  calfish  love  for  a  woman  whom  he 
had  seen  ten  or  fifteen  years  before — or  King  Henri  IV  sub- 
mitting to  assassination  because  his  mistress  no  longer  loved 
him. 

So,  and  no  otherwise,  did  these  good  people  present  their 
parlor  Kings,  and  condottieri,  and  heroic  passion.  They  were 
worthy  scions  of  the  illustrious  nincompoops  of  the  days  of 
Grand  Cyrus,  those  Gascons  of  the  ideal — Scudery,  La  Cal- 
prenede — an  everlasting  brood,  the  songsters  of  sham  heroism, 
impossible  heroism,  which  is  the  enemy  of  truth.  Christophe 
observed  to  his  amazement  that  the  French,  who  are  said  to 
be  so  clever,  had  no  sense  of  the  ridiculous. 

He  was  lucky  when  religion  was  not  dragged  in  to  fit  the 
fashion!  Then,  during  Lent,  certain  actors  read  the  sermons 
of  Bossuet  at  the  Gaite  to  the  accompaniment  of  an  organ. 
Jewish  authors  wrote  tragedies  about  Saint  Theresa  for  Jewish 
actresses.  The  Way  of  the  Cross  was  acted  at  the  Bodiniere, 
the  Child  Jesus  at  the  Ambigu,  the  Passion  at  the  Porte-Saint- 
Martin,  Jesus  at  the  Odeon,  orchestral  suites  on  the  subject  of 
Christ  at  the  Botanical  Gardens.  And  a  certain  brilliant  talker 
— a  poet  who  wrote  passionate  love-songs — gave  a  lecture  on  the 
Redemption  at  the  Chatelet.  And,  of  course,  the  passages  of 
the  Gospel  that  were  most  carefully  preserved  by  these  people 
were  those  relating  to  Pilate  and  Mary  Magdalene : — "  What  is 


78  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

truth  ?  "  and  the  story  of  the  blessed  foolish  virgin. — And  their 
boulevard  Christs  were  horribly  loquacious  and  well  up  in  all 
the  latest  tricks  of  worldly  casuistry. 

Christophe  said: 

"  That  is  the  worst  yet.  It  is  untruth  incarnate.  I'm  stifling. 
Let's  get  out." 

And  yet  there  was  a  great  classic  art  that  held  its  ground 
among  all  these  modern  industries,  like  the  ruins  of  the  splendid 
ancient  temples  among  all  the  pretentious  buildings  of  modern 
Rome.  But,  outside  Moliere,  Christophe  was  not  yet  able  to 
appreciate  it.  He  was  not  yet  familiar  enough  with  the  lan- 
guage, and,  therefore,  could  not  grasp  the  genius  of  the  race. 
Nothing  baffled  him  so  much  as  the  tragedy  of  the  seventeenth 
century — one  of  the  least  accessible  provinces  of  French  art  to 
foreigners,  precisely  because  it  lies  at  the  very  heart  of  France. 
It  bored  him  horribly;  he  found  it  cold,  dry,  and  revolting  in 
its  tricks  and  pedantry.  The  action  was  thin  or  forced,  the 
characters  were  rhetorical  abstractions  or  as  insipid  as  the 
conversation  of  society  women.  They  were  caricatures  of 
the  ancient  legends  and  heroes:  a  display  of  reason,  argu- 
ments, quibbling,  and  antiquated  psychology  and  archeology. 
Speeches,  speeches,  speeches ;  the  eternal  loquacity  of  the  French. 
Christophe  ironically  refused  to  say  whether  it  was  beautiful 
or  not:  there  was  nothing  to  interest  him  in  it:  whatever  the 
arguments  put  forward  in  turn  by  the  orators  of  Cinna,  he  did 
not  care  a  rap  which  of  the  talking-machines  won  in  the  end. 

However,  he  had  to  admit  that  the  French  audience  was 
not  of  his  way  of  thinking,  and  that  they  did  applaud  these 
plays  that  bored  him.  But  that  did  not  help  to  dissipate  his 
confusion:  he  saw  the  plays  through  the  audience:  and  he 
recognized  in  the  modern  French  certain  of  the  features,  dis- 
torted, of  the  classics.  So  might  a  critical  eye  see  in  the  faded 
charms  of  an  old  coquette  the  clear,  pure  features  of  her 
daughter: — (such  a  discovery  is  not  calculated  to  foster  the  il- 
lusion of  love).  Like  the  members  of  a  family  who  are  used 
to  seeing  each  other,  the  French  could  not  see  the  resemblance. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  79 

But  Christophe  was  struck  by  it,  and  exaggerated  it:  he  could 
see  nothing  else.  Every  work  of  art  he  saw  seemed  to  him  to 
be  full  of  old-fashioned  caricatures  of  the  great  ancestors  of 
the  French:  and  he  saw  these  same  great  ancestors  also  in  cari- 
cature. He  could  not  see  any  difference  between  Corneille  and 
the  long  line  of  his  followers,  those  rhetorical  poets  whose 
mania  it  was  to  present  nothing  but  sublime  and  ridiculous 
cases  of  conscience.  And  Racine  he  confounded  with  his  off- 
spring of  pretentiously  introspective  Parisian  psychologists. 

None  of  these  people  had  really  broken  free  from  the  classics. 
The  critics  were  for  ever  discussing  Tartuffe  and  Phedre.  They 
never  wearied  of  hearing  the  same  plays  over  and  over  again. 
They  delighted  in  the  same  old  words,  and  when  they  were 
old  men  they  laughed  at  the  same  jokes  which  had  been  their 
joy  when  they  were  children.  And  so  it  would  be  while  the 
French  nation  endured.  No  country  in  the  world  has  so  firmly 
rooted  a  cult  of  its  great-great-grandfathers.  The  rest  of  the 
universe  did  not  interest  them.  There  were  many,  many  men 
and  women,  even  intelligent  men  and  women,  who  had  never 
read  anything,  and  never  wanted  to  read  anything  outside  the 
works  that  had  been  written  in  France  under  the  Great  King! 
Their  theaters  presented  neither  Goethe,  nor  Schiller,  nor  Kleist, 
nor  Grillparzer,  nor  Hebbel,  nor  any  of  the  great  dramatists 
of  other  nations,  with  the  exception  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  whose 
heirs  they  declared  themselves  to  be — (like  every  other  nation 
in  Europe).  Every  now  and  then  they  felt  they  ought  to  in- 
clude Shakespeare.  That  was  the  touchstone.  There  were  two 
schools  of  Shakespearean  interpreters:  the  one  played  King 
Lear,  with  a  commonplace  realism,  like  a  comedy  of  Emile 
Augier:  the  other  turned  Hamlet  into  an  opera,  with  bravura 
airs  and  vocal  exercises  a  la  Victor  Hugo.  It  never  occurred 
to  them  that  reality  could  be  poetic  or  that  poetry  was  the 
spontaneous  language  of  hearts  bursting  with  life.  Shakespeare 
seemed  false.  They  very  quickly  went  back  to  Rostand. 

And  yet,  during  the  last  twenty  years,  there  had  been  sturdy 


80  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

efforts  made  to  vitalize  the  theater:  the  narrow  circle  of  sub- 
jects drawn  from  Parisian  literature  had  been  widened:  the 
theater  laid  hands  on  everything  with  a  show  of  audacity.  Two 
or  three  times  even  the  outer  world,  public  life,  had  torn  down 
the  curtain  of  convention.  But  the  theatrists  made  haste  to 
piece  it  together  again.  They  lived  in  blinkers,  and  were 
afraid  of  seeing  things  as  they  are.  A  sort  of  clannishness,  a 
classical  tradition,  a  routine  of  form  and  spirit,  and  a  lack  of 
real  seriousness,  held  them  back  from  pushing  their  audacity 
to  its  logical  extremity.  They  turned  the  acutest  problems  into 
ingenious  games :  and  they  always  came  back  to  the  problem  of 
women — women  of  a  certain  class.  And  what  a  sorry  figure  did 
the  phantoms  of  great  men  cut  on  their  boards :  the  heroic 
Anarchy  of  Ibsen,  the  Gospel  of  Tolstoy,  the  Superman  of 
Nietzsche!  .  .  . 

The  literary  men  of  Paris  took  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  seem 
to  be  advanced  thinkers.  But  at  heart  they  were  all  conserva- 
tive. There  was  no  literature  in  Europe  in  which  the  past, 
the  old,  the  "eternal  yesterday,"  held  a  completer  and  more 
unconscious  sway :  in  the  great  reviews,  in  the  great  newspapers, 
in  the  State-aided  theaters,  in  the  Academy,  Paris  was  in 
literature  what  London  was  in  Politics:  the  check  on  the  mind 
of  Europe.  The  French  Academy  was  a  House  of  Lords.  A 
certain  number  of  the  institutions  of  the  Ancien  Regime  forced 
the  spirit  of  the  old  days  on  the  new  society.  Every  revolu- 
tionary element  was  rejected  or  promptly  assimilated.  They 
asked  nothing  better.  In  vain  did  the  Government  pretend 
to  a  socialistic  polity.  In  art  it  truckled  under  to  the  Academies 
and  the  Academic  Schools.  Against  the  Academies  there  was 
no  opposition  save  from  a  few  coteries,  and  they  put  up  a  very 
poor  fight.  For  as  soon  as  a  member  of  a  coterie  could,  he  fell 
into  line  with  an  Academy,  and  became  more  academic  than 
the  rest.  And  even  if  a  writer  were  in  the  advance  guard  or 
in  the  van  of  the  army,  he  was  almost  always  trammeled  by 
his  group  and  the  ideas  of  his  group.  Some  of  them  were 
hidebound  by  their  academic  Credo,  others  by  their  revolution- 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  81 

ary  Credo:  and,  when  all  was  done,  they  both  amounted  to  the 
same  thing. 

By  way  of  rousing  Christophe,  on  whom  academic  art  had 
acted  as  a  soporific,  Sylvain  Kohn  proposed  to  take  him  to  cer- 
tain eclectic  theaters, — the  very  latest  thing.  There  they  saw 
murder,  rape,  madness,  torture,  eyes  plucked  out,  bellies  gutted 
— anything  to  thrill  the  nerves,  and  satisfy  the  barbarism 
lurking  beneath  a  too  civilized  section  of  the  people.  It  had  a 
great  attraction  for  pretty  women  and  men  of  the  world — the 
people  who  would  go  and  spend  whole  afternoons  in  the  stuffy 
courts  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  listening  to  scandalous  cases, 
laughing,  talking,  and  eating  chocolates.  But  Christophe  in- 
dignantly refused.  The  more  closely  he  examined  that  sort 
of  art,  the  more  acutely  he  became  aware  of  the  odor  that 
from  the  very  first  he  had  detected,  faintly  in  the  beginning, 
then  more  strongly,  and  finally  it  was  suffocating:  the  odor  of 
death. 

Death:  it  was  everywhere  beneath  all  the  luxury  and  uproar. 
Christophe  discovered  the  explanation  of  the  feeling  of  repug- 
nance with  which  certain  French  plays  had  filled  him.  It  was 
not  their  immorality  that  shocked  him.  Morality,  immorality, 
amorality, — all  these  words  mean  nothing.  Christophe  had 
never  invented  any  moral  theory:  he  loved  the  great  poets  and 
great  musicians  of  the  past,  and  they  were  no  saints :  when  he 
came  across  a  great  artist  he  did  not  inquire  into  his  morality : 
he  asked  him  rather: 

"Are  you  healthy?" 

To  be  healthy  was  the  great  thing.  "If  the  poet  is  ill,  let 
him  first  of  all  cure  himself,"  as  Goethe  says.  "  When  he  is 
cured,  he  will  write." 

The  writers  of  Paris  were  unhealthy:  or  if  one  of  them  hap- 
pened to  be  healthy,  the  chances  were  that  he  was  ashamed 
of  it:  he  disguised  it,  and  did  his  best  to  catch  some  disease. 
Their  sickness  was  not  shown  in  any  particular  feature  of 
their  art: — the  love  of  pleasure,  the  extreme  license  of  mind, 


82  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAKIS 

or  the  universal  trick  of  criticism  which  examined  and  dis- 
sected every  idea  that  was  expressed.  All  these  things  could 
be — and  were,  as  the  case  might  be — healthy  or  unhealthy.  If 
death  was  there,  it  did  not  come  from  the  material,  but  from 
the  use  that  these  people  made  of  it ;  it  was  in  the  people  them- 
selves. And  Christophe  himself  loved  pleasure.  He,  too,  loved 
liberty.  He  had  drawn  down  upon  himself  the  displeasure 
of  his  little  German  town  by  his  frankness  in  defending  many 
things,  which  he  found  here,  promulgated  by  these  Parisians, 
in  such  a  way  as  to  disgust  him.  And  yet  they  were  the  same 
things.  But  nothing  sounded  the  same  to  the  Parisians  and  to 
himself.  When  Christophe  impatiently  shook  off  the  yoke  of 
the  great  Masters  of  the  past,  when  he  waged  war  against  the 
esthetics  and  the  morality  of  the  Pharisees,  it  was  not  a  game 
to  him  as  it  was  to  these  men  of  intellect:  and  his  revolt  was 
directed  only  towards  life,  the  life  of  fruitfulness,  big  with 
the  centuries  to  come.  With  these  people  all  tended  to  sterile 
enjoyment.  Sterile,  Sterile,  Sterile.  That  was  the  key  to  the 
enigma.  Mind  and  senses  were  fruitlessly  debauched.  A 
brilliant  art,  full  of  wit  and  cleverness — a  lovely  form,  in  truth, 
a  tradition  of  beauty,  impregnably  seated,  in  spite  of  foreign 
alluvial  deposits — a  theater  which  was  a  theater,  a  style  which 
was  a  style,  authors  who  knew  their  business,  writers  who  could 
write,  the  fine  skeleton  of  an  art,  and  a  thought  that  had  been 
great.  But  a  skeleton.  Sonorous  words,  ringing  phrases,  the 
metallic  clang  of  ideas  hurtling  down  the  void,  witticisms, 
minds  haunted  by  sensuality,  and  senses  numbed  with  thought. 
It  was  all  useless,  save  for  the  sport  of  egoism.  It  led  to  death. 
It  was  a  phenomenon  analogous  to  the  frightful  decline  in  the 
birth-rate  of  France,  which  Europe  was  observing — and  reckon- 
ing— in  silence.  So  much  wit,  so  much  cleverness,  so  many 
acute  senses,  all  wasted  and  wasting  in  a  sort  of  shameful 
onanism!  They  had  no  notion  of  it,  and  wished  to  have  none. 
They  laughed.  That  was  the  only  thing  that  comforted  Chris- 
tophe a  little:  these  people  could  still  laugh:  all  was  not  lost. 
He  liked  them  even  less  when  they  tried  to  take  themselves 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  83 

seriously:  and  nothing  hurt  him  more  than  to  see  writers,  who 
regarded  art  as  no  more  than  an  instrument  of  pleasure,  giv- 
ing themselves  airs  as  priests  of  a  disinterested  religion: 

"  We  are  artists,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn  once  more  complacently. 
"  We  follow  art  for  art's  sake.  Art  is  always  pure :  every- 
thing in  art  is  chaste.  We  explore  life  as  tourists,  who  find 
everything  amusing.  We  are  amateurs  of  rare  sensations,  lovers 
of  beauty." 

"  You  are  hypocrites,"  replied  Christophe  bluntly.  "  Excuse 
my  saying  so.  I  used  to  think  my  own  country  had  a  monopoly. 
In  Germany  our  hypocrisy  consists  in  always  talking  about 
idealism  while  we  think  of  nothing  but  our  interests,  and  we 
even  believe  that  we  are  idealists  while  we  think  of  nothing 
but  ourselves.  But  you  are  much  worse:  you  cover  your  na- 
tional lewdness  with  the  names  of  Art  and  Beauty  (with  cap- 
itals)— when  you  do  not  shield  your  Moral  Pilatism  behind 
the  names  of  Truth,  Science,  Intellectual  Duty,  and  you  wash 
your  hands  of  the  possible  consequences  of  your  haughty  in- 
quiry. Art  for  art's  sake!  .  .  .  That's  a  fine  faith!  But 
it  is  the  faith  of  the  strong.  Art !  To  grasp  life,  as  the  eagle 
claws  its  prey,  to  bear  it  up  into  the  air,  to  rise  with  it  into 
the  serenity  of  space!  .  .  .  For  that  you  need  talons,  great 
wings,  and  a  strong  heart.  But  you  are  nothing  but  sparrows 
who,  when  they  find  a  piece  of  carrion,  rend  it  here  and  there, 
squabbling  for  it,  and  twittering.  .  .  .  Art  for  art's  sake! 
...  Oh!  wretched  men!  Art  is  no  common  ground  for 
the  feet  of  all  who  pass  it  by.  Why,  it  is  a  pleasure,  it  is  the 
most  intoxicating  of  all.  But  it  is  a  pleasure  which  is  only 
won  at  the  cost  of  a  strenuous  fight :  it  is  the  laurel-wreath  that 
crowns  the  victory  of  the  strong.  Art  is  life  tamed.  Art  is  the 
Emperor  of  life.  To  be  Caesar  a  man  must  have  the  soul  of 
Cassar.  But  you  are  only  limelight  Kings:  you  are  playing 
a  part,  and  do  not  even  deceive  yourselves.  And,  like  those 
actors,  who  turn  to  profit  their  deformities,  you  manufacture 
literature  out  of  your  own  deformities  and  those  of  your  public. 
Lovingly  do  you  cultivate  the  diseases  of  your  people,  their 


84  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

fear  of  effort,  their  love  of  pleasure,  their  sensual  minds, 
their  chimerical  humanitarianism,  everything  in  them  that 
drugs  the  will,  everything  in  them  that  saps  their  power  for 
action.  You  deaden  their  minds  with  the  fumes  of  opium. 
Behind  it  all  is  death:  you  know  it:  but  you  will  not  admit  it. 
Well,  I  tell  you:  Where  death  is,  there  art  is  not.  Art  is  the 
spring  of  life.  But  even  the  most  honest  of  your  writers  are  so 
cowardly  that  even  when  the  bandage  is  removed  from  their 
eyes  they  pretend  not  to  see:  they  have  the  effrontery  to 
say: 

" '  It  is  dangerous,  I  admit :  it  is  poisonous :  but  it  is  full  of 
talent/ 

"It  is  as  if  a  judge,  sentencing  a  hooligan,  were  to  say: 
" '  He's    a    blackguard,    certainly :    but    he    has    so    much 
talent!   .    .    .'" 

Christophe  wondered  what  was  the  use  of  French  criticism. 
There  was  no  lack  of  critics:  they  swarmed  all  over  and  about 
French  art.  It  was  impossible  to  see  the  work  of  the  artists: 
they  were  swamped  by  the  critics. 

Christophe  was  not  indulgent  towards  criticism  in  general. 
He  found  it  difficult  to  admit  the  utility  of  these  thousands 
of  artists  who  formed  a  Fourth  or  Fifth  Estate  in  the  modern 
community:  he  read  in  it  the  signs  of  a  worn-out  generation 
which  relegates  to  others  the  business  of  regarding  life — feeling 
vicariously.  And,  to  go  farther,  it  seemed  to  him  not  a  little 
shameful  that  they  could  not  even  see  with  their  own  eyes  the 
reflection  of  life,  but  must  have  yet  more  intermediaries,  re- 
flections of  the  reflection — the  critics.  At  least,  they  ought  to 
have  seen  to  it  that  the  reflections  were  true.  But  the  critics 
reflected  nothing  but  the  uncertainty  of  the  mob  that  moved 
round  them.  They  were  like  those  trick  mirrors  which  reflect 
again  and  again  the  faces  of  the  sightseers  who  gaze  into  them 
against  a  painted  background. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  the  critics  had  enjoyed  a  tre- 
mendous authority  in  France.  The  public  bowed  down  to  their 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  85 

decrees :  and  they  were  not  far  from  regarding  them  as  superior 
to  the  artists,  as  artists  with  intelligence: — (apparently  the  two 
words  do  not  go  together  naturally) .  Then  they  had  multiplied 
too  rapidly :  there  were  too  many  oracles :  that  spoiled  the  trade. 
When  there  are  so  many  people,  each  of  whom  declares  that  he 
is  the  sole  repository  of  truth,  it  is  impossible  to  believe  them: 
and  in  the  end  they  cease  to  believe  it  themselves.  They  were 
discouraged :  in  the  passage  from  night  to  day,  according  to 
the  French  custom,  they  passed  from  one  extreme  to  the  other. 
Where  they  had  before  professed  to  know  everything,  they  now 
professed  to  know  nothing.  It  was  a  point  of  honor  with  them, 
quite  fatuously.  Kenan  had  taught  those  milksop  generations 
that  it  is  not  correct  to  affirm  anything  without  denying  it  at 
once,  or  at  least  casting  a  doubt  on  it.  He  was  one  of  those 
men  of  whom  St.  Paul  speaks :  "  For  whom  there  is  always 
Yes,  Yes,  and  then  No,  No."  All  the  superior  persons  in  France 
had  wildly  embraced  this  amphibious  Credo.  It  exactly  suited 
their  indolence  of  mind  and  weakness  of  character.  They  no 
longer  said  of  a  work  of  art  that  it  was  good  or  bad,  true  or 
false,  intelligent  or  idiotic.  They  said: 

"It  may  be  so.  ...  Nothing  is  impossible.  ...  I 
don't  know.  ...  I  wash  my  hands  of  it." 

If  some  objectionable  piece  were  put  up,  they  did  not 
say: 

"  That  is  nasty  rubbish !  " 

They  said : 

"  Sir  Sganarelle,  please  do  not  talk  like  that.  Our  philoso- 
phy bids  us  talk  of  everything  open-mindedly :  and  therefore 
you  ought  not  to  say :  '  That  is  nasty  rubbish ! '  but :  'It 
seems  to  me  that  that  is  nasty  rubbish.  .  .  .  But  it  is  not 
certain  that  it  is  so.  It  may  be  a  masterpiece.  Who  can  say 
that  it  is  not?'" 

There  was  no  danger  of  their  being  accused  of  tyranny  over 
the  arts.  Schiller  once  taught  them  a  lesson  when  he  reminded 
the  petty  tyrants  of  the  Press  of  his  time  of  what  he  called 
bluntly : 


86  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"The  Duty  of  Servants. 

"First,  the  house  must  be  clean  that  the  Queen  is  to  enter. 
Bustle  about,  then!  Sweep  the  rooms.  That  is  what  you  are 
there  for,  gentlemen! 

"But  as  soon  as  She  appears,  out  you  go!  Let  not  the 
serving-wench  sit  in  her  lady's  chair!" 

But,  to  be  just  to  the  critics  of  that  time,  it  must  be  said 
that  they  never  did  sit  in  their  lady's  chair.  It  was  ordered 
that  they  should  be  servants:  and  servants  they  were.  But  bad 
servants:  they  never  took  a  broom  in  their  hands:  the  room 
was  thick  with  dust.  Instead  of  cleaning  and  tidying,  they 
folded  their  arms,  and  left  the  work  to  be  done  by  the  master, 
the  divinity  of  the  day : — Universal  Suffrage. 

In  fact,  there  had  been  for  some  time  a  wave  of  reaction 
passing  through  the  popular  conscience.  A  few  people  had  set 
out — feebly  enough — on  a  campaign  of  public  health:  but 
Christophe  could  see  no  sign  of  it  among  the  people  with  whom 
he  lived.  They  gained  no  hearing,  and  were  laughed  at.  When 
every  now  and  then  some  honest  man  did  raise  a  protest  against 
unclean  art,  the  authors  replied  haughtily  that  they  were  in 
the  right,  since  the  public  was  satisfied.  That  was  enough  to 
silence  every  objection.  The  public  had  spoken:  that  was  the 
supreme  law  of  art!  It  never  occurred  to  anybody  to  impeach 
the  evidence  of  a  debauched  public  in  favor  of  those  who  had 
debauched  them,  or  that  it  was  the  artist's  business  to  lead 
the  public,  not  the  public  the  artist.  A  numerical  religion — 
the  number  of  the  audience,  and  the  sum  total  of  the  receipts — 
dominated  the  artistic  thought  of  that  commercialized  democ- 
racy. Following  the  authors,  the  critics  docilely  declared  that 
the  essential  function  of  a  work  of  art  was  to  please.  Success 
is  law:  and  when  success  endures,  there  is  nothing  to  be  done 
but  to  bow  to  it.  And  so  they  devoted  their  energies  to  an- 
ticipating the  fluctuations  of  the  Exchange  of  pleasure,  in 
trying  to  find  out  what  the  public  thought  of  the  various  plays. 
The  joke  of  it  was  that  the  public  was  always  trying  frantically 
to  find  out  what  the  critics  thought.  And  so  there  they  were, 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  87 

looking  at  each  other :  and  in  each  other's  eyes  they  saw  nothing 
but  their  own  indecision. 

And  yet  never  had  there  been  such  crying  need  of  a  fearless 
critic.  In  an  anarchical  Republic,  fashion,  which  is  all-power- 
ful in  art,  very  rarely  looks  backward,  as  it  does  in  a  con- 
servative State :  it  goes  onwards  always :  and  there  is  a  perpetual 
competition  of  libertinism  which  hardly  anybody  dare  resist. 
The  mob  is  incapable  of  forming  an  opinion:  at  heart  it  is 
shocked :  but  nobody  dares  to  say  what  everybody  secretly  feels. 
If  the  critics  were  strong,  if  they  dared  to  be  strong,  what  a 
power  they  would  have !  A  vigorous  critic  would  in  a  few  years 
become  the  Napoleon  of  public  taste,  and  sweep  away  all  the 
diseases  of  art.  But  there  is  no  Napoleon  in  France.  All 
the  critics  live  in  that  vitiated  atmosphere,  and  do  not  notice  it. 
And  they  dare  not  speak.  They  all  know  each  other.  They 
are  a  more  or  less  close  company,  and  they  have  to  consider  each 
other:  not  one  of  them  is  independent.  To  be  so,  they  would 
have  to  renounce  their  social  life,  and  even  their  friendships. 
Who  is  there  that  would  have  the  courage,  in  such  a  knock- 
kneed  time,  when  even  the  best  critics  doubt  whether  a  just 
notice  is  worth  the  annoyance  it  may  cause  to  the  writer  and 
the  object  of  it  ?  Who  is  there  so  devoted  to  duty  that  he  would 
condemn  himself  to  such  a  hell  on  earth :  dare  to  stand  out 
against  opinion,  fight  the  imbecility  of  the  public,  expose  the 
mediocrity  of  the  successes  of  the  day,  defend  the  unknown  artist 
v/ho  is  alone  and  at  the  mercy  of  the  beasts  of  prey,  and  subject 
the  minds  of  those  who  were  born  to  obey  to  the  dominion  of 
the  master-mind?  Christophe  actually  heard  the  critics  at  a 
first  night  in  the  vestibule  of  the  theater  say :  "  H'm !  Pretty 
bad,  isn't  it  ?  Utter  rot !  "  And  next  day  in  their  notices  they 
talked  of  masterpieces,  Shakespeare,  the  wings  of  genius  beat- 
ing above  their  heads. 

"  It  is  not  so  much  talent  that  your  art  lacks  as  char- 
acter," said  Christophe  to  Sylvain  Kohn.  "  You  need  a  great 
critic,  a  Lessing,  a  .  .  ." 

"  A  Boileau  ? "  said  Sylvain  quizzically. 


88  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"A  Boileau,  perhaps,  more  than  these  artists  of  genius." 

"  If  we  had  a  Boileau,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn,  "  no  one  would 
listen  to  him." 

"  If  they  did  not  listen  to  him,"  replied  Christophe,  "  he 
would  not  be  a  Boileau.  I  bet  you  that  if  I  set  out  and  told 
you  the  truth  about  yourselves,  quite  bluntly,  however  clumsy 
I  might  be,  you  would  have  to  gulp  it  down." 

"  My  dear  good  fellow !  "  laughed  Sylvain  Kohn. 

That  was  all  the  reply  he  made. 

He  was  so  cocksure  and  so  satisfied  with  the  general  flabbi- 
ness  of  the  French  that  suddenly  it  occurred  to  Christophe 
that  Kohn  was  a  thousand  times  more  of  a  foreigner  in  France 
than  himself:  and  there  was  a  catch  at  his  heart. 

"It  is  impossible,"  he  said  once  more,  as  he  had  said  that 
evening  when  he  had  left  the  theater  on  the  boulevards  in  dis- 
gust. "  There  must  be  something  else." 

"  What  more  do  you  want  ?  "  asked  Sylvain  Kohn. 

"  France." 

"  We  are  France,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn,  gurgling  with  laughter. 

Christophe  stared  hard  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  shook 
his  head,  and  said  once  more : 

"  There  must  be  something  else." 

"  Well,  old  man,  you'd  better  look  for  it,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn, 
laughing  louder  than  ever. 

Christophe  had  to  look  for  it.     It  was  well  hidden. 


II 

THE  more  clearly  Christophe  saw  into  the  .vat  of  ideas  in 
which  Parisian  art  was  fermenting,  the  more  strongly  he  was 
impressed  by  the  -supremacy  of  women  in  that  cosmopolitan 
community.  They  had  an  absurdly  disproportionate  im- 
portance. It  was  not  enough  for  woman  to  be  the  helpmeet  of 
man.  It  was  not  even  enough  for  her  to  be  his  equal.  Her 
pleasure  must  be  law  both  for  herself  and  for  man.  And  man 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  89 

truckled  to  it.  When  a  nation  is  growing  old,  it  renounces 
its  will,  its  faith,  the  whole  essence  of  its  being,  in  favor  of  the 
giver  of  pleasure.  Men  make  works  of  art:  but  women  make 
men, —  (except  when  they  tamper  with  the  work  of  the  men,  as 
happened  in  France  at  that  time)  : — and  it  would  be  more 
just  to  say  that  they  unmake  what  they  make.  No  doubt  the 
Eternal  Feminine  has  been  an  uplifting  influence  on  the  best 
of  men:  but  for  the  ordinary  men,  in  ages  of  weariness  and 
fatigue,  there  is,  as  some  one  has  said,  another  Feminine,  just 
as  eternal,  who  drags  them  down.  This  other  Feminine  waa 
the  mistress  of  Parisian  thought,  the  Queen  of  the  Eepublic. 

Christophe  closely  observed  the  Parisian  women  at  the  houses 
at  which  Sylvain  Kohn's  introduction  or  his  own  skill  at  the 
piano  had  made  him  welcome.  Like  most  foreigners,  he  gen- 
eralized freely  and  unsparingly  about  French  women  from  the 
two  or  three  types  he  had  met:  young  women,  not  very  tall, 
and  not  at  all  fresh,  with  neat  figures,  dyed  hair,  large  hats 
on  their  pretty  heads  that  were  a  little  too  large  for  their  bodies : 
they  had  trim  features,  but  their  faces  were  just  a  little  too 
fleshy :  good  noses,  vulgar  sometimes,  characterless  always :  quick 
eyes  without  any  great  depth,  which  they  tried  to  make  as 
brilliant  and  large  as  possible :  well-cut  lips  that  were  perfectly 
under  control :  plump  little  chins ;  and  the  lower  part  of  their 
faces  revealed  their  utter  materialism;  they  were  elegant  little 
creatures  who,  amid  all  their  preoccupations  with  love  and  in- 
trigue, never  lost  sight  of  public  opinion  and  their  domestic 
affairs.  They  were  pretty,  but  they  belonged  to  no  race. 
In  all  these  polite  ladies  there  was  the  savor  of  the  re- 
spectable woman  perverted,  or  wanting  to  be  so,  together 
with  all  the  traditions  of  her  class;  prudence,  economy,  cold- 
ness, practical  common  sense,  egoism.  A  poor  sort  of  life. 
A  desire  for  pleasure  emanating  rather  from  a  cerebral 
curiosity  than  from  a  need  of  the  senses.  Their  will  was 
mediocre  in  quality,  but  firm.  They  were  very  well  dressed, 
and  had  little  automatic  gestures.  They  were  always  patting 


90     v  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

their  hair  or  their  gowns  with  the  backs  or  the  palms  of  their 
hands,  with  little  delicate  movements.  And  they  always  man- 
aged to  sit  so  that  they  could  admire  themselves — and  watch 
other  women — in  a  mirror,  near  or  far,  not  to  mention,  at 
tea  or  dinner,  the  spoons,  knives,  silver  coffee-pots,  polished 
and  shining,  in  which  they  always  peeped  at  the  reflections  of 
their  faces,  which  were  more  interesting  to  them  than  anything 
or  anybody  else.  At  meals  they  dieted  sternly:  drinking  water 
and  depriving  themselves  altogether  of  any  food  that  might 
stand  in  the  way  of  their  ideal  of  a  complexion  of  a  floury 
whiteness. 

There  was  a  fairly  large  proportion  of  Jewesses  among 
Christophe's  acquaintance :  and  he  was  always  attracted  by 
them,  although,  since  his  encounter  with  Judith  Mannheim, 
he  had  hardly  any  illusions  about  them.  Sylvain  Kohn  had 
introduced  him  to  several  Jewish  houses  where  he  was  re- 
ceived with  the  usual  intelligence  of  the  race,  which  loves  in- 
telligence. Christophe  met  financiers  there,  engineers,  news- 
paper proprietors,  international  brokers,  slave-dealers  of  a  sort 
from  Algiers — the  men  of  affairs  of  the  Republic.  They  were 
clear-headed  and  energetic,  indifferent  to  other  people,  smiling, 
affable,  and  secretive.  Christophe  felt  sometimes  that  behind 
their  hard  faces  was  the  knowledge  of  crime  in  the  past,  and 
the  future,  of  these  men  gathered  round  the  sumptuous  table 
laden  with  food,  flowers,  and  wine.  They  were  almost  all  ugly. 
But  the  women,  taken  as  a  whole,  were  quite  brilliant,  though 
it  did  not  do  to  look  at  them  too  closely :  in  most  of  them  there 
was  a  want  of  subtlety  in  their  coloring.  But  brilliance  there 
was,  and  a  fair  show  of  material  life,  beautiful  shoulders  gen- 
erously exposed  to  view,  and  a  genius  for  making  their  beauty 
and  even  their  ugliness  a  lure  for  the  men.  An  artist  would 
have  recognized  in  some  of  them  the  old  Roman  type,  the  women 
of  the  time  of  Nero,  down  to  the  time  of  Hadrian.  And  there 
were  Palmaesque  faces,  with  a  sensual  expression,  heavy  chins 
Bolidly  modeled  with  the  neck,  and  not  without  a  certain  bestial 
beauty.  Some  of  them  had  thick  curly  hair,  and  bold,  fiery 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  91 

eyes:  they  seemed  to  be  subtle,  incisive,  ready  for  everything, 
more  virile  than  other  women.  And  also  more  feminine.  Here 
and  there  a  more  spiritual  profile  would  stand  out.  Those  pure 
features  came  from  beyond  Eome,  from  the  East,  the  country 
of  Laban:  there  was  expressed  in  them  the  poetry  of  silence, 
of  the  Desert.  But  when  Christophe  went  nearer,  and  listened 
to  the  conversations  between  Rebecca  and  Faustina  the  Roman, 
or  Saint  Barbe  the  Venetian,  he  found  her  to  be  just  a  Parisian 
Jewess,  just  like  the  others,  even  more  Parisian  than  the  Parisian 
women,  more  artificial  and  sophisticated,  talking  quietly,  and 
maliciously  stripping  the  assembled  company,  body  and  soul, 
with  her  Madonna's  eyes. 

Christophe  wandered  from  group  to  group,  but  could  identify 
himself  with  none  of  them.  The  men  talked  savagely  of  hunt- 
ing, brutally  of  love,  and  only  of  money  with  any  sort  of  real 
appreciation.  And  that  was  cold  and  cunning.  They  talked 
business  in  the  smoking-room.  Christophe  heard  some  one 
say  of  a  certain  fop  who  was  sauntering  from  one  lady  to  an- 
other, with  a  buttonhole  in  his  coat,  oozing  heavy  compliments : 

"So!     He  is  free  again?" 

In  a  corner  of  the  room  two  ladies  were  talking  of  the  love- 
affairs  of  a  young  actress  and  a  society  woman.  There  was  oc- 
casional music.  Christophe  was  asked  to  play.  Large  women, 
breathless  and  heavily  perspiring,  declaimed  in  an  apocalyptic 
tone  verses  of  Sully-Prudhomme  or  Auguste  Dorchain.  A  fa- 
mous actor  solemnly  recited  a  Mystic  Ballad  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  an  American  organ.  Words  and  music  were  so 
stupid  that  they  turned  Christophe  sick.  But  the  Roman 
women  were  delighted,  and  laughed  heartily  to  show  their 
magnificent  teeth.  Scenes  from  Ibsen  were  performed.  It 
was  a  fine  epilogue  to  the  struggle  of  a  great  man  against  the 
Pillars  of  Society  that  it  should  be  used  for  their  diversion ! 

And  then  they  all  began,  of  course,  to  prattle  about  art.  That 
was  horrible.  The  women  especially  began  to  talk  of  Ibsen, 
Wagner,  Tolstoy,  flirtatiously,  politely,  boredly,  or  idiotically. 
Once  the  conversation  had  started,  there  was  no  stopping  it. 


92  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

The  disease  was  contagious.  Christophe  had  to  listen  to  the 
ideas  of  bankers,  brokers,  and  slave-dealers  on  art.  In  vain  did 
he  refuse  to  speak  or  try  to  turn  the  conversation:  they  in- 
sisted on  talking  about  music  and  poetry.  As  Berlioz  said: 
"  Such  people  use  the  words  quite  coolly :  just  as  though  they 
were  talking  of  wine,  women,  or  some  such  trash."  An  alienist 
physician  recognized  one  of  his  patients  in  an  Ibsen  heroine, 
though  to  his  way  of  thinking  she  was  infinitely  more  silly. 
An  engineer  quite  sincerely  declared  that  the  husband  was  the 
sympathetic  character  in  the  Doll's  House.  The  famous  actor 
— a  well-known  Comedian — brayed  his  profound  ideas  on 
Nietzsche  and  Carlyle :  he  assured  Christophe  that  he  could  not 
see  a  picture  of  Velasquez — (the  idol  of  the  hour) — "without 
the  tears  coursing  down  his  cheeks."  And  he  confided — still 
to  Christophe's  private  ear — that,  though  he  esteemed  art  very 
highly,  yet  he  esteemed  still  more  highly  the  art  of  living, 
acting,  and  that  if  he  were  asked  to  choose  what  part  he 
would  play,  it  would  be  that  of  Bismarck.  .  .  .  Sometimes 
there  would  be  of  the  company  a  professed  wit,  but  the  level 
of  the  conversation  was  not  appreciably  higher  for  that.  Gen- 
erally they  said  nothing;  they  confined  themselves  to  a  jerky 
remark  or  an  enigmatic  smile:  they  lived  on  their  reputations, 
and  were  saved  further  trouble.  But  there  were  a  few  pro- 
fessional talkers,  generally  from  the  South.  They  talked  about 
anything  and  everything.  They  had  no  sense  of  proportion: 
everything  came  alike  to  them.  One  was  a  Shakespeare.  An- 
other a  Moliere.  Another  a  Pascal,  if  not  a  Jesus  Christ. 
They  compared  Ibsen  with  Dumas  fils,  Tolstoy  with  George 
Sand:  and  the  gist  of  it  all  was  that  everything  came  from 
France.  Generally  they  were  ignorant  of  foreign  languages. 
But  that  did  not  disturb  them.  It  mattered  so  little  to  their 
audience  whether  they  told  the  truth  or  not !  What  did  matter 
was  that  they  should  say  amusing  things,  things  as  flattering 
as  possible  to  national  vanity.  Foreigners  had  to  put  up  with 
a  good  deal — with  the  exception  of  the  idol  of  the  hour:  for 
there  was  always  a  fashionable  idol:  Grieg,  or  Wagner,  or 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  93 

Nietzsche,  or  Gorki,  or  D'Annunzio.  It  never  lasted  long,  and 
the  idol  was  certain  one  fine  morning  to  be  thrown  on  to  the 
rubbish-heap. 

For  the  moment  the  idol  was  Beethoven.  Beethoven — save 
the  mark! — was  in  the  fashion:  at  least,  among  literary  and 
polite  persons:  for  musicians  had  dropped  him  at  once,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  see-saw  system  which  is  one  of  the  laws  of 
artistic  taste  in  France.  A  Frenchman  needs  to  know  what 
his  neighbor  thinks  before  he  knows  what  he  thinks  himself, 
so  that  he  can  think  the  same  thing  or  the  opposite.  Thus, 
when  they  saw  Beethoven  in  popular  favor,  the  most  distin- 
guished musicians  began  to  discover  that  he  was  not  distin- 
guished enough  for  them:  they  claimed  to  lead  opinion,  not  to 
follow  it :  and  rather  than  be  in  agreement  with  it  they  turned 
their  backs  on  it.  They  began  to  regard  Beethoven  as  a  man 
afflicted  with  deafness,  crying  in  a  voice  of  bitterness :  and  some 
of  them  declared  that  he  might  be  an  excellent  moralist,  but 
that  he  was  certainly  overpraised  as  a  musician.  That  sort  of 
joke  was  not  at  all  to  Christophe's  taste.  Still  less  did  he  like 
the  enthusiasm  of  polite  society.  If  Beethoven  had  come  to 
Paris  just  then,  he  would  have  been  the  lion  of  the  hour:  it 
was  such  a  pity  that  he  had  been  dead  for  more  than  a  century. 
His  vogue  grew  not  so  much  out  of  his  music  as  out  of  the  more 
or  less  romantic  circumstances  of  his  life  which  had  been 
popularized  by  sentimental  and  virtuous  biographies.  His 
rugged  face  and  lion's  mane  had  become  a  romantic  figure. 
Ladies  wept  for  him:  they  hinted  that  if  they  had  known  him 
he  should  not  have  been  so  unhappy:  and  in  their  greatness 
of  heart  they  were  the  more  ready  to  sacrifice  all  for  him, 
in  that  there  was  no  danger  of  Beethoven  taking  them  at  their 
word:  the  old  fellow  was  beyond  all  need  of  anything.  That 
was  why  the  virtuosi,  the  conductors,  and  the  impresarii  bowed 
down  in  pious  worship  before  him :  and,  as  the  representatives  of 
Beethoven,  they  gathered  the  homage  destined  for  him.  There 
were  sumptuous  festivals  at  exorbitant  prices,  which  afforded 
society  people  an  opportunity  of  showing  their  generosity — and 


94  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

incidentally  also  of  discovering  Beethoven's  symphonies.  There 
were  committees  of  actors,  men  of  the  world,  Bohemians,  and 
politicians,  appointed  by  the  Republic  to  preside  over  the 
destinies  of  art,  and  they  informed  the  world  of  their  intention 
to  erect  a  monument  to  Beethoven:  and  on  these  committees, 
together  with  a  few  honest  men  whose  names  guaranteed  the 
rest,  were  all  the  riffraff  who  would  have  stoned  Beethoven  if 
he  had  been  alive,  if  Beethoven  had  not  crushed  the  life  out 
of  them.  Christophe  watched  and  listened.  He  ground  his 
teeth  to  keep  himself  from  saying  anything  outrageous.  He 
was  on  tenterhooks  the  whole  evening.  He  could  not  talk, 
nor  could  he  keep  silent.  It  seemed  to  him  humiliating 
and  shameful  to  talk  neither  for  pleasure  nor  from  neces- 
sity, but  out  of  politeness,  because  he  had  to  talk.  He  was 
not  allowed  to  say  what  he  thought,  and  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  make  conversation.  And  he  did  not  even  know  how  to 
be  polite  without  talking.  If  he  looked  at  anybody,  he  glared 
too  fixedly  and  intently :  in  spite  of  himself  he  studied  that  per- 
son, and  that  person  was  offended.  If  he  spoke  at  all,  he  be- 
lieved too  much  in  what  he  was  saying ;  and  that  was  disturbing 
for  everybody,  and  even  for  himself.  He  quite  admitted  that 
he  was  out  of  his  element:  and,  as  he  was  clever  enough  to 
sound  the  general  note  of  the  company,  in  which  his  presence 
was  a  discord,  he  was  as  upset  by  his  manners  as  his  hosts. 
He  was  angry  with  himself  and  with  them. 

When  at  last  he  stood  in  the  street  once  more,  very  late  at 
night,  he  was  so  worn  out  with  the  boredom  of  it  all  that  he 
could  hardly  drag  himself  home:  he  wanted  to  lie  down  just 
where  he  was,  in  the  street,  as  he  had  done  many  times  when 
he  was  returning  as  a  boy  from  his  performances  at  the  Palace 
of  the  Grand  Duke.  Although  he  had  only  five  or  six  francs 
to  take  him  to  the  end  of  the  week,  he  spent  two  of  them  on  a 
cab.  He  flung  himself  into  it  the  more  quickly  to  escape :  and 
as  he  drove  along  he  groaned  aloud  from  sheer  exhaustion. 
IWhen  he  reached  home  and  got  to  bed,  he  groaned  in  his 
sleep.  .  >  >;  And  then,  suddenly,  he  roared  with  laughter  as 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  95 

he  remembered  some  ridiculous  saying.  He  woke  up  repeating 
it,  and  imitating  the  features  of  the  speaker.  Next  day,  and 
for  several  days  after,  as  he  walked  about,  he  would  suddenly 
bellow  like  a  bull.  .  .  .  Why  did  he  visit  these  people  ?  Why 
did  he  go  on  visiting  them?  Why  force  himself  to  gesticulate 
and  make  faces,  like  the  rest,  and  pretend  to  be  interested  in 
things  that  did  not  appeal  to  him  in  the  very  least  ?  Was  it  true 
that  he  was  not  in  the  least  interested?  A  year  ago  he  would 
not  have  been  able  to  put  up  with  them  for  a  moment.  Now, 
at  heart,  he  was  amused  by  it  all,  while  at  the  same  time  it  ex- 
asperated him.  Was  a  little  of  the  indifference  of  the  Parisians 
creeping  over  him?  He  would  sometimes  wonder  fearfully 
whether  he  had  lost  strength.  But,  in  truth,  he  had  gained  in 
strength.  He  was  more  free  in  mind  in  strange  surroundings. 
In  spite  of  himself, -his  eyes  were  opened  to  the  great  Comedy 
of  the  world. 

Besides,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  he  had  to  go  on  with  it 
if  he  wanted  his  art  to  be  recognized  by  Parisian  society,  which 
is  only  interested  in  art  in  so  far  as  it  knows  the  artist.  And 
he  had  to  make  himself  known  if  he  were  to  find  among  these 
Philistines  the  pupils  necessary  to  keep  him  alive. 

And,  then,  Christophe  had  a  heart:  his  heart  must  have 
affection:  wherever  he  might  be,  there  he  would  find  food  for 
his  affections :  without  it  he  could  not  live. 

Among  the  few  girls  of  that  class  of  society — few  enough 
— whom  Christophe  taught,  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  motor- 
car manufacturer,  Colette  Stevens.  Her  father  was  a  Belgian, 
a  naturalized  Frenchman,  the  son  of  an  Anglo-American  settled 
at  Antwerp,  and  a  Dutchwoman.  Her  mother  was  an  Italian. 
A  regular  Parisian  family.  To  Christophe — and  to  many  others 
— Colette  Stevens  was  the  type  of  French  girl. 

She  was  eighteen,  and  had  velvety,  soft  black  eyes,  which 
she  used  skilfully  upon  young  men — regular  Spanish  eyes,  with 
enormous  pupils;  a  rather  long  and  fantastic  nose,  which 
wrinkled  up  and  moved  at  the  tip  as  she  talked,  with  little 


96  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

fractious  pouts  and  shrugs;  rebellious  hair;  a  pretty  little  face; 
rather  sallow  complexion,  dabbed  with  powder;  heavy,  rather 
thick  features :  altogether  she  was  like  a  plump  kitten. 

She  was  slight,  very  well  dressed,  attractive,  provoking:  she 
had  sly,  affected,  rather  silly  manners:  her  pose  was  that  of  a 
little  girl,  and  she  would  sit  rocking  her  chair  for  hours  at  a 
time,  and  giving  little  exclamations  like :  "  No  ?  Im- 
possible. .  .  ." 

At  meals  she  would  clap  her  hands  when  there  was  a  dish 
she  loved:  in  the  drawing-room  she  would  smoke  cigarette 
after  cigarette,  and,  when  there  were  men  present,  display  an 
exuberant  affection  for  her  girl-friends,  flinging  her  arms  round 
their  necks,  kissing  their  hands,  whispering  in  their  ears,  mak- 
ing ingenuous  and  naughty  remarks,  doing  it  most  brilliantly, 
in  a  soft,  twittering  voice;  and  in  the  lightest  possible  way 
she  would  say  improper  things,  without  seeming  to  do  more 
than  hint  at  them,  and  was  even  more  skilful  in  provoking  them 
from  others;  she  had  the  ingenuous  air  of  a  little  girl,  who 
knows  perfectly  well  what  she  is  about,  with  her  large  brilliant 
eyes,  slyly  and  voluptuously  looking  sidelong,  maliciously  tak- 
ing in  all  the  gossip,  and  catching  at  all  the  dubious  remarks 
of  the  conversation,  and  all  the  time  angling  for  hearts. 

All  these  tricks  and  shows,  and  her  sophisticated  ingenuity, 
were  not  at  all  to  Christophe's  liking.  He  had  better  things  to 
do  than  to  lend  himself  to  the  practices  of  an  artful  little  girl, 
and  did  not  even  care  to  look  on  at  them  for  his  amusement. 
He  had  to  earn  his  living,  to  keep  his  life  and  ideas  from 
death.  He  had  no  interest  in  these  drawing-room  parakeets 
beyond  the  gaining  of  a  livelihood.  In  return  for  their  money, 
he  gave  them  lessons,  conscientiously  concentrating  all  his 
energies  on  the  task,  to  keep  the  boredom  of  it  from  master- 
ing him,  and  his  attention  from  being  distracted  by  the  tricks  of 
his  pupils  when  they  were  coquettes,  like  Colette  Stevens.  He 
paid  no  more  attention  to  her  than  to  Colette's  little  cousin,  a 
child  of  twelve,  shy  and  silent,  whom  the  Stevens  had  adopted, 
to  whom  also  Christophe  gave  lessons  on  the  piano. 


THE  MAEKET-PLACB  97 

But  Colette  was  too  clever  not  to  feel  that  all  her  charms  were 
lost  on  Christophe,  and  too  adroit  not  to  adapt  herself  at  once 
to  his  character.  She  did  not  even  need  to  do  so  deliberately. 
It  was  a  natural  instinct  with  her.  She  was  a  woman.  She 
was  like  water,  formless.  The  soul  of  every  man  she  met  was 
a  vessel,  whose  form  she  took  immediately  out  of  curiosity. 
It  was  a  law  of  her  existence  that  she  should  always  be  some 
one  else.  Her  whole  personality  was  for  ever  shifting.  She 
was  for  ever  changing  her  vessel. 

Christophe  attracted  her  for  many  reasons,  the  chief  of 
which  was  that  he  was  not  attracted  by  her.  He  attracted 
her  also  because  he  was  different  from  all  the  young  men  of 
her  acquaintance:  she  had  never  tried  to  pour  herself  into  a 
vessel  of  such  a  rugged  form.  And,  finally,  he  attracted  her, 
because,  being  naturally  and  by  inheritance  expert  in  the 
valuation  at  the  first  glance  of  men  and  vessels,  she  knew 
perfectly  well  that  what  he  lacked  in  polish  Christophe  made 
up  in  a  solidity  of  character  which  none  of  her  smart  young 
Parisians  could  offer  her. 

She  played  as  well  and  as  badly  as  most  idle  young  women. 
She  played  a  great  deal  and  very  little — that  is  to  say,  that 
she  was  always  working  at  it,  but  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it. 
She  strummed  on  her  piano  all  day  long,  for  want  of  anything 
else  to  do,  or  from  affectation,  or  because  it  gave  her  pleasure. 
Sometimes  she  rattled  along  mechanically.  Sometimes  she 
would  play  well,  very  well,  with  taste  and  soul — (it  was  almost 
as  though  she  had  a  soul :  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  only  bor- 
rowed one).  Before  she  knew  Christophe,  she  was  capable  of 
liking  Massenet,  Grieg,  Thome.  But  after  she  met  Chris- 
tophe she  ceased  to  like  them.  Then  she  played  Bach  and 
Beethoven  very  correctly — (which  is  not  very  high  praise)  : 
but  the  great  thing  was  that  she  loved  them.  At  bottom  it 
was  not  Beethoven,  nor  Thome,  nor  Bach,  nor  Grieg  that  she 
loved,  but  the  notes,  the  sounds,  the  fingers  running  over  the 
keys,  the  thrills  she  got  from  the  chords  which  tickled  her 
nerves  and  made  her  wriggle  with  pleasure. 


98  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

In  the  drawing-room  of  the  great  house,  decorated  with 
faded  tapestry,  and  on  an  easel  in  the  middle  room,  a  portrait 
of  the  stout  Madame  Stevens  by  a  fashionable  painter  who 
had  represented  her  in  a  languishing  attitude,  like  a  flower  dy- 
ing for  want  of  water,  with  a  die-away  expression  in  her  eyes, 
and  her  body  draped  in  impossible  curves,  by  way  of  expressing 
the  rare  quality  of  her  millionaire  soul — in  the  great  drawing- 
room,  with  its  bow-windows  looking  on  to  a  clump  of  old  trees 
powdered  with  snow,  Christophe  would  find  Colette  sitting  at 
her  piano,  repeating  the  same  passage  over  and  over  again, 
delighting  her  ear  with  mellifluous  dissonance. 

"  Ah ! "  Christophe  would  say  as  he  entered,  "  the  cat  is  still 
purring ! " 

"  How  wicked  of  you ! "  she  would  laugh.  .  .  .  (And  she 
would  hold  out  her  soft  little  hand.) 

"...  Listen.     Isn't  it  pretty?" 

"Very  pretty,"  he  would  say  indifferently. 

"  You  aren't  listening !   .    .    .     Will  you  please  listen  ?  " 

"I  am  listening.  .  .  .  It's  the  same  thing  over  and  over 
again." 

"  Ah !  you  are  no  musician,"  she  would  say  pettishly. 

"  As  if  that  were  music  or  anything  like  it !  " 

"What!  Not  music!  .  .  .  What  is  it,  then,  if  you 
please  ?  " 

"  You  know  quite  well :  I  won't  tell  you,  because  it  would  not 
be  polite." 

"  All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  say  it." 

"  You  want  me  to  ?  ...  So  much  the  worse  for  you ! 
:.  .  .  Well,  do  you  know  what  you  are  doing  with  your  piano  ? 
i.  .  .  You  are  flirting  with  it." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Certainly.  You  say  to  it :  '  Dear  piano,  dear  piano, 
say  pretty  things  to  me;  kiss  me;  give  me  just  one  little 
kiss!'" 

"You  need  not  say  any  more,"  said  Colette,  half  vexed,  half 
laughing.  "  You  haven't  the  least  idea  of  respect." 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  99 

"  Not  the  least." 

"  You  are  impertinent.  .  .  .  And  then,  even  if  it  were  so, 
isn't  that  the  right  way  to  love  music?" 

"  Oh,  come,  don't  mix  music  up  with  that." 

"  But  that  is  music !     A  beautiful  chord  is  a  kiss." 

"I  never  told  you  that." 

"But  isn't  it  true?  .  .  .  Why  do  you  shrug  your  shoul- 
ders and  make  faces  ?  " 

"  Because  it  annoys  me." 

"  So  much  the  better." 

"  It  annoys  me  to  hear  music  spoken  of  as  though  it  were  a 
sort  of  indulgence.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  isn't  your  fault.  It's  the 
fault  of  the  world  you  live  in.  The  stale  society  in  which  you 
live  regards  music  as  a  sort  of  legitimate  vice.  .  .  .  Come, 
sit  down!  Play  me  your  sonata." 

"No.     Let  us  talk  a  little  longer." 

"  I'm  not  here  to  talk.  I'm  here  to  teach  you  the  piano.  .  .  . 
Come,  play  away !  " 

"  You're  so  rude !  "  said  Colette,  rather  vexed — but  at  heart 
delighted  to  be  handled  so  roughly. 

She  played  her  piece  carefully:  and,  as  she  was  clever,  she 
succeeded  fairly  well,  and  sometimes  even  very  well.  Chris- 
tophe,  who  was  not  deceived,  laughed  inwardly  at  the  skill  "  of 
the  little  beast,  who  played  as  though  she  felt  what  she  was 
playing,  while  really  she  felt  nothing  at  all."  And  yet  he  had 
a  sort  of  amused  sympathy  for  her.  Colette,  on  her  part,  seized 
every  excuse  for  going  on  with  the  conversation,  which  inter- 
ested her  much  more  than  her  lesson.  It  was  no  good  Chris- 
tophe  drawing  back  on  the  excuse  that  he  could  not  say  what 
he  thought  without  hurting  her  feelings:  she  always  wheedled 
it  out  of  him :  and  the  more  insulting  it  was,  the  less  she  was 
hurt  by  it:  it  was  an  amusement  for  her.  But,  as  she  was 
quick  enough  to  see  that  Christophe  liked  nothing  so  much  as 
sincerity,  she  would  contradict  him  flatly,  and  argue  tenaciously 
They  would  part  very  good  friends. 


100  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

However,  Christophe  would  never  have  had  the  least  illusion 
about  their  friendship,  and  there  would  never  have  been  the 
smallest  intimacy  between  them,  had  not  Colette  one  day  taken 
it  into  her  head,  out  of  sheer  instinctive  coquetry,  to  confide  in 
him. 

The  evening  before  her  parents  had  given  an  At  Home.  She 
had  laughed,  chattered,  flirted  outrageously:  but  next  morning, 
when  Christophe  came  for  her  lesson,  she  was  worn  out,  drawn- 
looking,  gray-faced,  and  haggard.  She  hardly  spoke:  she 
seemed  utterly  depressed.  She  sat  at  the  piano,  played  softly, 
made  mistakes,  tried  to  correct  them,  made  them  again,  stopped 
short,  and  said : 

"  I  can't.  .  .  .  Please  forgive  me.  .  .  .  Please  wait  a 
little.  ..." 

He  asked  if  she  were  unwell.  She  said :  "  No.  .  .  .  She 
was  out  of  sorts.  .  .  .  She  had  bouts  of  it.  ...  It  was 
absurd,  but  he  must  not  mind." 

He  proposed  to  go  away  and  come  again  another  day:  but 
she  insisted  on  his  staying: 

"  Just  a  moment.  ...  I  shall  be  all  right  presently.  .  .  . 
It's  silly  of  me,  isn't  it  ?  " 

He  felt  that  she  was  not  her  usual  self:  but  he  did  not 
question  her :  and,  to  turn  the  conversation,  he  said : 

"That's  what  comes  of  having  been  so  brilliant  last  night. 
You  took  too  much  out  of  yourself." 

She  smiled  a  little  ironically. 

"  One  can't  say  the  same  of  you,"  she  replied. 

He  laughed. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  said  a  word,"  she  went  on. 

"  Not  a  word." 

"  But  there  were  interesting  people  there." 

"  Oh  yes.  All  sorts  of  lights  and  famous  people,  all  talking 
at  once.  But  I'm  lost  among  all  your  boneless  Frenchmen  who 
understand  everything,  and  explain  everything,  and  excuse 
everything — and  feel  nothing  at  all.  People  who  talk  for  hours 
together  about  art  and  love !  Isn't  it  revolting  ?  " 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  101 

"  But  you  ought  to  be  interested  in  art  if  not  in  love." 

"  One  doesn't  talk  about  these  things :  one  does  them." 

"But  when  one  cannot  do  them?"  said  Colette,  pouting. 

Christophe  replied  with  a  laugh: 

"  Well,  leave  it  to  others.     Everybody  is  not  fit  for  art." 

"Nor  for  love?" 

"  Nor  for  love." 

"  How  awful !     What  is  left  for  us  ?  " 

"  Housekeeping." 

"Thanks,"  said  Colette,  rather  annoyed.  She  turned  to  the 
piano  and  began  again,  made  mistakes,  thumped  the  keyboard, 
and  moaned : 

"  I  can't !  .  .  .  I'm  no  good  at  all.  I  believe  you  are  right. 
Women  aren't  any  good." 

"  It's  something  to  be  able  to  say  so,"  said  Christophe 
genially. 

She  looked  at  him  rather  sheepishly,  like  a  little  girl  who 
has  been  scolded,  and  said : 

"  Don't  be  so  hard." 

"  I'm  not  saying  anything  hard  about  good  women,"  replied 
Christophe  gaily.  "  A  good  woman  is  Paradise  on  earth.  Only, 
Paradise  on  earth  ..." 

"  I  know.     No  one  has  ever  seen  it." 

"  I'm  not  so  pessimistic.  I  say  only  that  I  have  never  seen 
it:  but  that's  no  reason  why  it  should  not  exist.  I'm  deter- 
mined to  find  it,  if  it  does  exist.  But  it  is  not  easy.  A  good 
woman  and  a  man  of  genius  are  equally  rare." 

"  And  all  the  other  men  and  women  don't  count  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  only  they  who  count — for  the 
world." 

"But  for  you?" 

"  For  me,  they  don't  exist." 

"  You  are  hard,"  repeated  Colette. 

"  A  little.  Somebody  has  to  be  hard,  if  only  in  the  interest 
of  the  others!  ...  If  there  weren't  a  few  pebbles  here  and 
there  in  the  world,  the  whole  thing  would  go  to  pulp." 


102  JEAtf-CHRISTOPHE  IK  PARIS 

"  Yes.  You  are  right.  It  is  a  good  thing  for  you  that 
you  are  strong,"  said  Colette  sadly.  "  But  you  must  not  be 
too  hard  on  men, — and  especially  on  women  who  aren't  strong. 
.  .  .  You  don't  know  how  terrible  our  weakness  is  to  us. 
Because  you  see  us  flirting,  and  laughing,  and  doing  silly 
things,  you  think  we  never  dream  of  anything  else,  and  you 
despise  us.  Ah !  if  you  could  see  all  that  goes  on  in  the  minds 
of  the  girls  of  from  fifteen  to  eighteen  as  they  go  out  into 
society,  and  have  the  sort  of  success  that  comes  to  their  youth 
and  freshness — when  they  have  danced,  and  talked  smart  non- 
sense, and  said  bitter  things  at  which  people  laugh  because  they 
laugh,  when  they  have  given  themselves  to  imbeciles,  and  sought 
in  vain  in  their  eyes  the  light  that  is  nowhere  to  be  found, 
— if  you  could  see  them  in  their  rooms  at  night,  in  silence,  alone, 
kneeling  in  agony  to  pray !  .  .  . " 

"  Is  it  possible  ? "  said  Christophe,  altogether  amazed. 
"  What !  you,  too,  have  suffered  ?  " 

Colette  did  not  reply:  but  tears  came  to  her  eyes.  She  tried 
to  smile  and  held  out  her  hand  to  Christophe:  he  grasped  it 
warmly. 

"  What  would  you  have  us  do  ?  There  is  nothing  to  do. 
You  men  can  free  yourselves  and  do  what  you  like.  But  we 
are  bound  for  ever  and  ever  within  the  narrow  circle  of  the 
duties  and  pleasures  of  society :  we  cannot  break  free." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  prevent  your  freeing  yourselves,  finding 
some  work  you  like,  and  winning  your  independence  just  as 
we  do." 

"  As  you  do  ?  Poor  Monsieur  Kraff  t !  Your  work  is  not  so 
very  certain!  .  .  .  But  at  least  you  like  your  work.  But 
what  sort  of  work  can  we  do?  There  isn't  any  that  we  could 
find  interesting — for,  I  know,  we  dabble  in  all  sorts  of  things, 
and  pretend  to  be  interested  in  a  heap  of  things  that  do  not 
concern  us:  we  do  so  want  to  be  interested  in  something!  I 
do  what  the  others  do.  I  do  charitable  work  and  sit  on  social 
work  committees.  I  go  to  lectures  at  the  Sorbonne  by  Bergson 
and  Jules  Lemaitre,  historical  concerts,  classical  matinees,  and  I 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  103 

take  notes  and  notes.  ...  I  never  know  what  I  am  writing ! 
.  .  .  and  I  try  to  persuade  myself  that  I  am  absorbed  by  it, 
or  at  least  that  it  is  useful.  Ah !  but  I  know  that  it  is  not  true. 
I  know  that  I  don't  care  a  bit,  and  that  I  am  bored  by  it  all ! 
.  .  .  Don't  despise  me  because  I  tell  you  frankly  what  every- 
body thinks  in  secret.  I'm  no  sillier  than  the  rest.  But  what 
use  are  philosophy,  history,  and  science  to  me?  As  for  art, — 
you  see, — I  strum  and  daub  and  make  messy  little  water-color 
sketches; — but  is  that  enough  to  fill  a  woman's  life?  There  is 
only  one  end  to  our  life :  marriage.  But  do  you  think  there  is 
much  fun  in  marrying  this  or  that  young  man  whom  I  know 
as  well  as  you  do?  I  see  them  as  they  are.  I  am  not  for- 
tunate enough  to  be  like  your  German  Gretchens,  who  can  al- 
ways create  an  illusion  for  themselves.  .  .  .  That  is  terrible, 
isn't  it?  To  look  around  and  see  girls  who  have  married  and 
their  husbands,  and  to  think  that  one  will  have  to  do  as  they 
have  done,  be  cramped  in  body  and  mind,  and  become  dull  like 
them !  .  .  .  One  needs  to  be  stoical,  I  tell  you,  to  accept  such 
a  life  with  such  obligations.  All  women  are  not  capable  of  it. 
.  .  .  And  time  passes,  the  years  go  by,  youth  fades:  and  yet 
there  were  lovely  things  and  good  things  in  us — all  useless,  for 
day  by  day  they  die,  and  one  has  to  surrender  them  to  the  fools 
and  people  whom  one  despises,  people  who  will  despise  oneself ! 
.  .  .  And  nobody  understands!  One  would  think  that  we 
were  sphinxes.  One  can  forgive  the  men  who  find  us  dull  and 
strange !  But  the  women  ought  to  understand  us !  They  have 
been  like  us :  they  have  only  to  look  back  and  remember.  .  .  . 
But  no.  There  is  no  help  from  them.  Even  our  mothers  ig- 
nore us,  and  actually  try  not  to  know  what  we  are.  They  only 
try  to  get  us  married.  For  the  rest,  they  say,  live,  die,  do  as 
you  like !  Society  absolutely  abandons  us." 

"  Don't  lose  heart,"  said  Christophe.  "  Every  one  has  to 
face  the  experience  of  life  all  over  again.  If  you  are  brave, 
it  will  be  all  right.  Look  outside  your  own  circle.  There 
must  be  a  few  honest  men  in  France." 

"  There  are.    I  know.    But  they  are  so  tedious !  .   .   ..    And 


104  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

then,  I  tell  you,  I  detest  the  circle  in  which  I  live :  but  I  don't 
think  I  could  live  outside  it,  now.  It  has  become  a  habit.  I 
need  a  certain  degree  of  comfort,  certain  refinements  of  luxury 
and  comfort,  which,  no  doubt,  money  alone  cannot  provide, 
though  it  is  an  indispensable  factor.  That  sounds  pretty  poor, 
I  know.  But  I  know  myself :  I  am  weak.  .  .  .  Please,  please, 
don't  draw  away  from  me  because  I  tell  you  of  my  cowardice. 
Be  kind  and  listen  to  me.  It  helps  me  so  to  talk  to  you!  I 
feel  that  you  are  strong  and  sound:  I  have  such  confidence  in 
you.  Will  you  be  my  friend  ?  " 

"  Gladly,"  said  Christophe.     "  But  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  Listen  to  me,  advise  me,  give  me  courage.  I  am  often 
so  depressed !  And  then  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  say  to 
myself :  '  What  is  the  good  of  fighting  ?  What's  the  good  of 
tormenting  myself?  One  way  or  the  other,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter ?  Nothing  and  nobody  matters ! '  That  is  a  dreadful  con- 
dition to  be  in.  I  don't  want  to  get  like  that.  Help  me. 
Help  me." 

She  looked  utterly  downcast;  she  looked  older  by  ten  years: 
she  looked  at  Christophe  with  abject,  imploring  eyes.  He  prom- 
ised what  she  asked.  Then  she  revived,  smiled,  and  was  gay 
once  more. 

And  in  the  evening  she  was  laughing  and  flirting  as  usual. 

Thereafter  they  had  many  intimate  conversations.  They 
were  alone  together:  she  confided  in  him:  he  tried  hard  to 
understand  and  advise  her:  she  listened  to  his  advice,  or,  if 
necessary,  to  his  remonstrances,  gravely,  attentively,  like  a  good 
little  girl :  it  was  a  distraction,  an  interest,  even  a  support  for 
her :  she  thanked  him  coquettishly  with  a  depth  of  feeling  in  her 
eyes. — But  her  life  was  changed  in  nothing:  it  was  only  a  dis- 
traction the  more. 

Her  day  was  passed  in  a  succession  of  metamorphoses.  She 
got  up  very  late,  about  midday,  after  a  sleepless  night :  for  she 
rarely  went  to  sleep  before  dawn.  All  day  long  she  did  nothing. 
She  would  vaguely  call  to  mind  a  poem,  an  idea,  a  scrap  of  an 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  105 

idea,  or  a  face  that  had  pleased  her.  She  was  never  quite 
awake  until  about  four  or  five  in  the  afternoon.  Till  then  her 
eyelids  were  heavy,  her  face  was  puffy,  and  she  was  sulky  and 
sleepy.  She  would  revive  on  the  arrival  of  a  few  girl-friends  as 
talkative  as  herself,  and  all  sharing  the  same  interest  in  the 
gossip  of  Paris.  They  chattered  endlessly  about  love.  The 
psychology  of  love :  that  was  the  unfailing  topic,  mixed  up  with 
dress,  the  indiscretions  of  others,  and  scandal.  She  had  also 
a  circle  of  idle  young  men  to  whom  it  was  necessary  to  spend 
three  hours  a  day  among  skirts:  they  ought  to  have  worn  them 
really,  for  they  had  the  souls  and  the  conversation  of  girls. 
Christophe  had  his  hour  as  her  confessor.  At  once  Colette 
would  become  serious  and  intense.  She  was  like  the  young 
Frenchwoman,  of  whom  Bodley  speaks,  who,  at  the  confessional, 
"  developed  a  calmly  prepared  essay,  a  model  of  clarity  and 
order,  in  which  everything  that  was  to  be  said  was  properly  ar- 
ranged in  distinct  categories." — And  after  that  she  flung  herself 
once  more  into  the  business  of  amusement.  As  the  day  went  on 
she  grew  younger.  In  the  evening  she  went  to  the  theater :  and 
there  was  the  eternal  pleasure  of  recognizing  the  same  eternal 
faces  in  the  audience: — her  pleasure  lay  not  in  the  play  that 
was  performed,  but  in  the  actors  whom  she  knew,  whose  familiar 
mannerisms  she  remarked  once  more.  And  she  exchanged 
spiteful  remarks  with  the  people  who  came  to  see  her  in  her 
box  about  the  people  in  the  other  boxes  and  about  the  actresses. 
The  ingenue  was  said  to  have  a  thin  voice  "like  sour  mayon- 
naise," or  the  great  comedienne  was  dressed  "like  a  lamp- 
shade."— Or  else  she  went  out  to  a  party:  and  there  the  pleas- 
ure, for  a  pretty  girl  like  Colette,  lay  in  being  seen: — (but 
there  were  bad  days :  nothing  is  more  capricious  than  good  looks 
in  Paris)  : — and  she  renewed  her  store  of  criticisms  of  people, 
and  their  dresses,  and  their  physical  defects.  There  was  no 
conversation. — She  would  go  home  late,  and  take  her  time 
about  going  to  bed  (that  was  the  time  when  she  was  most 
awake).  She  would  dawdle  about  her  dressing-table:  skim 
through  a  book:  laugh  to  herself  at  the  memory  of  something 


106  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

said  or  done.  She  was  bored  and  very  unhappy.  She  could  not 
go  to  sleep,  and  in  the  night  there  would  come  frightful  mo- 
ments of  despair. 

Christophe,  who  only  saw  Colette  for  a  few  hours  at  intervals, 
and  could  only  be  present  at  a  few  of  these  transformations, 
found  it  difficult  to  understand  her  at  all.  He  wondered  when 
she  was  sincere, — or  if  she  were  always  sincere — or  if  she  were 
never  sincere.  Colette  herself  could  not  have  told  him.  Like 
most  girls  who  are  idle  and  circumscribed  in  their  desires,  she 
was  in  darkness.  She  did  not  know  what  she  was,  because 
she  did  not  know  what  she  wanted,  because  she  could  not  know 
what  she  wanted  without  having  tried  it.  She  would  try  it,  after 
her  fashion,  with  the  maximum  of  liberty  and  the  minimum  of 
risk,  trying  to  copy  the  people  about  her  and  to  take  their  moral 
measure.  She  was  in  no  hurry  to  choose.  She  would  have 
liked  to  try  everything,  and  turn  everything  to  account. 

But  that  did  not  work  with  a  friend  like  Christophe.  He 
was  perfectly  willing  to  allow  her  to  prefer  people  whom  he  did 
not  admire,  even  people  whom  he  despised:  but  he  would  not 
suffer  her  to  put  him.  on  the  same  level  with  them.  Every- 
body to  his  own  taste:  but  at  least  let  everybody  have  his  own 
taste. 

He  was  the  less  inclined  to  be  patient  with  Colette,  as  she 
seemed  to  take  a  delight  in  gathering  round  herself  all  the 
young  men  who  were  most  likely  to  exasperate  Christophe :  dis- 
gusting little  snobs,  most  of  them  wealthy,  all  of  them  idle,  or 
jobbed  into  a  sinecure  in  some  government  office — which 
amounts  to  the  same  thing.  They  all  wrote — or  pretended  to 
write.  That  was  an  itch  of  the  Third  Republic.  It  was  a  sort 
of  indolent  vanity, — intellectual  work  being  the  hardest  of  all  to 
control,  and  most  easily  lending  itself  to  the  game  of  bluff. 
They  never  gave  more  than  a  discreet,  though  respectful  hint, 
of  their  great  labors.  They  seemed  to  be  convinced  of  the  im- 
portance of  their  work,  staggering  under  the  weight  of  it.  At 
first  Christophe  was  a  little  embarrassed  by  the  fact  that  he 
had  never  heard  of  them  or  their  works.  He  tried  bashfully  to 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  107 

ask  about  them :  he  was  especially  anxious  to  know  what  one 
of  them  had  written,  a  young  man  who  was  declared  by  the 
others  to  be  a  master  of  the  theater.  He  was  surprised  to  hear 
that  this  great  dramatist  had  written  a  one-act  play  taken  from 
a  novel,  which  had  been  pieced  together  from  a  number  of 
short  stories,  or,  rather,  sketches,  which  he  had  published  in 
one  of  the  Reviews  during  the  past  ten  years.  The  baggage  of 
the  others  was  not  more  considerable:  a  few  one-act  plays,  a 
few  short  stories,  a  few  verses.  Some  of  them  had  won  fame 
with  an  article,  others  with  a  book  "which  they  were  going  to 
write."  They  professed  scorn  for  long-winded  books.  They 
seemed  to  attach  extreme  importance  to  the  handling  of  words. 
And  yet  the  word  "  thought "  frequently  occurred  in  their 
conversation:  but  it  did  not  seem  to  have  the  same  meaning 
as  is  usually  given  to  it:  they  applied  it  to  the  details  of  style. 
However,  there  were  among  them  great  thinkers,  and  great 
ironists,  who,  when  they  wrote,  printed  their  subtle  and  pro- 
found remarks  in  italics,  so  that  there  might  be  no  mistake. 

They  all  had  the  cult  of  the  letter  I:  it  was  the  only  cult 
they  had.  They  tried  to  proselytize.  But,  unfortunately, 
other  people  were  subscribers  to  the  cult.  They  were  always 
conscious  of  their  audience  in  their  way  of  speaking,  walking, 
smoking,  reading  a  paper,  carrying  their  heads,  looking,  bow- 
ing to  each  other. — Such  players'  tricks  are  natural  to  young 
people,  and  the  more  insignificant — that  is  to  say,  unoccupied 
— they  are,  the  stronger  hold  do  they  have  on  them.  They  are 
more  especially  paraded  before  women:  for  they  covet  women, 
and  long — even  more — to  be  coveted  by  them.  But  even  on  a 
chance  meeting  they  will  trot  out  their  bag  of  tricks :  even 
for  a  passer-by  from  whom  they  can  expect  only  a  glance  of 
amazement.  Christophe  often  came  across  these  young  strut- 
ting peacocks:  budding  painters,  and  musicians,  art-students 
who  modeled  their  appearance  on  some  famous  portrait:  Van 
Dyck,  Rembrandt,  Velasquez,  Beethoven;  or  fitted  it  to  the 
parts  they  wish  to  play:  painter,  musician,  workman,  the  pro- 
found thinker,  the  jolly  fellow,  the  Danubian  peasant,  the 


108  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

natural  man.  .  .  .  They  were  always  on  the  lookout  to  see 
if  they  were  attracting  attention.  When  Christophe  met  them 
in  the  street  he  took  a  malicious  pleasure  in  looking  the  other 
way  and  ignoring  them.  But  their  discomfiture  never  lasted 
long :  a  yard  or  so  farther  on  they  would  start  strutting  for  the 
next  comer. — But  the  young  men  of  Colette's  little  circle  were 
rather  more  subtle :  their  coxcombry  was  mental :  they  had  two 
or  three  models,  who  were  not  themselves  original.  Or  else 
they  would  mimic  an  idea:  Force,  Joy,  Pity,  Solidarity,  Social- 
ism, Anarchism,  Faith,  Liberty:  all  these  were  parts  for  their 
playing.  They  were  horribly  clever  in  making  the  dearest  and 
rarest  thoughts  mere  literary  stuff,  and  in  degrading  the  most 
heroic  impulses  of  the  human  soul  to  the  level  of  drawing-room 
commodities,  fashionable  neckties. 

But  in  love  they  were  altogether  in  their  element:  that  was 
their  special  province.  The  casuistry  of  pleasure  had  no  secrets 
for  them:  they  were  so  clever  that  they  could  invent  new  prob- 
lems so  as  to  have  the  honor  of  solving  them.  That  has  al- 
ways been  the  occupation  of  people  who  have  nothing  else  to 
do :  in  default  of  love,  they  "  make  love  " :  above  all,  they  ex- 
plain it.  Their  notes  took  up  far  more  room  than  their  text, 
which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  very  short.  Sociology  gave  a 
relish  to  the  most  scabrous  thoughts:  everything  was  sheltered 
beneath  the  flag  of  sociology:  though  they  might  have  had 
pleasure  in  indulging  their  vices,  there  would  have  been  some- 
thing lacking  if  they  had  not  persuaded  themselves  that  they 
were  laboring  in  the  cause  of  the  new  world.  That  was  an 
eminently  Parisian  sort  of  socialism:  erotic  socialism. 

Among  the  problems  that  were  then  exercising  the  little 
Court  of  Love  was  the  equality  of  men  and  women  in  mar- 
riage, and  their  respective  rights  in  love.  There  had  been 
young  men,  honest,  protestant,  and  rather  ridiculous, — Scan- 
dinavians and  Swiss — who  had  based  equality  on  virtue:  say- 
ing that  men  should  come  to  marriage  as  chaste  as  women. 
The  Parisian  casuists  looked  for  another  sort  of  equality,  an 
equality  based  on  loss  of  virtue,  saying  that  women  should 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  109 

come  to  marriage  as  besmirched  as  men, — the  right  to  take 
lovers.  The  Parisians  had  carried  adultery,  in  imagination  and 
practice,  to  such  a  pitch  that  they  were  beginning  to  find  it 
rather  insipid:  and  in  the  world  of  letters  attempts  were  being 
made  to  support  it  by  a  new  invention :  the  prostitution  of  young 
girls, — I  mean  regularized,  universal,  virtuous,  decent,  domestic, 
and,  above  all,  social  prostitution. — There  had  just  appeared  a 
book  on  the  question,  full  of  talent,  which  apparently  said  all 
there  was  to  be  said :  through  four  hundred  pages  of  playful 
pedantry,  "  strictly  in  accordance  with  the  rules  of  the  Ba- 
conian method,"  it  dealt  with  the  "  best  method  of  controlling 
the  relations  of  the  sexes."  It  was  a  lecture  on  free  love,  full  of 
talk  about  manners,  "propriety,  good  taste,  nobility,  beauty, 
truth,  modesty,  morality, — a  regular  Berquin  for  young  girls 
who  wanted  to  go  wrong. — It  was,  for  the  moment,  the  Gospel 
in  which  Colette's  little  court  rejoiced,  while  they  paraphrased 
it.  It  goes  without  saying,  that,  like  all  disciples,  they  dis- 
carded all  the  justice,  observation,  and  even  humanity  that  lay 
behind  the  paradox,  and  only  retained  the  evil  in  it.  They 
plucked  all  the  most  poisonous  flowers  from  the  little  bed  of 
sweetened  blossoms, — aphorisms  of  this  sort :  "  The  taste  for 
pleasure  can  only  sharpen  the  taste  for  work  " : — "  It  is  mon- 
strous that  a  girl  should  become  a  mother  before  she  has  tasted 
the  sweets  of  life." — "  To  have  had  the  love  of  a  worthy  and 
pure-souled  man  as  a  girl  is  the  natural  preparation  of  a 
woman  for  a  wise  and  considered  motherhood  " : — "  Mothers," 
said  this  author,  "  should  organize  the  lives  of  their  daughters 
with  the  same  delicacy  and  decency  with  which  they  control 
the  liberty  of  their  sons." — "  The  time  would  come  when  girls 
would  return  as  naturally  from  their  lovers  as  now  they  re- 
turn from  a  walk  or  from  taking  tea  with  a  friend." 

Colette  laughingly  declared  that  such  teaching  was  very  rea- 
sonable. 

Christophe  had  a  horror  of  it.  He  exaggerated  its  im- 
portance and  the  evil  that  it  might  do.  The  French  are 
too  clever  to  bring  their  literature  into  practice.  These  Diderots 


110  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

in  miniature  are,  in  ordinary  life,  like  the  genial  Panurge  of 
the  encyclopedia,  honest  citizens,  not  really  a  whit  less  timorous 
than  the  rest.  It  is  precisely  because  they  are  so  timid  in  ac- 
tion that  they  amuse  themselves  with  canning  action  (in 
thought)  to  the  limit  of  possibility.  It  is  a  game  without  any 
risk. 

But  Christophe  was  not  a  French  dilettante. 

Among  the  young  men  of  Colette's  circle,  there  was  one 
whom  she  seemed  to  prefer,  and,  of  course,  he  was  the  most  ob- 
jectionable of  all  to  Christophe. 

He  was  one  of  those  young  parvenus  of  the  second  generation 
who  form  an  aristocracy  of  letters,  and  are  the  patricians  of 
the  Third  Eepublic.  His  name  was  Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  He 
had  quick  eyes,  set  wide  apart,  an  aquiline  nose,  a  fair  Van  Dyck 
beard  clipped  to  a  point:  he  was  prematurely  bald,  which  did 
not  become  him :  and  he  had  a  silky  voice,  elegant  manners,  and 
fine  soft  hands,  which  he  was  always  rubbing  together.  He 
always  affected  an  excessive  politeness,  an  exaggerated  courtesy, 
even  with  people  he  did  not  like,  and  even  when  he  was  bent 
on  snubbing  them. 

Christophe  had  met  him  before  at  the  literary  dinner,  to 
which  he  was  taken  by  Sylvain  Kohn:  and  though  they  had 
not  spoken  to  each  other,  the  sound  of  Levy-Coaur's  voice 
had  been  enough  to  rouse  a  dislike  which  he  could  not  explain, 
and  he  was  not  to  discover  the  reason  for  it  until  much  later. 
There  are  sudden  outbursts  of  love:  and  so  there  are  of  hate, — 
or — (to  avoid  hurting  those  tender  souls  who  are  afraid  of  the 
word  as  of  every  passion) — let  us  call  it  the  instinct  of  health 
scenting  the  enemy,  and  mounting  guard  against  him. 

Levy-Coeur  was  exactly  the  opposite  of  Christophe,  and 
represented  the  spirit  of  irony  and  decay  which  fastened  gently, 
politely,  inexorably,  on  all  the  great  things  that  were  left  of 
the  dying  society :  the  family,  marriage,  religion,  patriotism : 
in  art,  on  everything  that  was  manly,  pure,  healthy,  of  the  peo- 
ple: faith  in  ideas,  feelings,  great  men,  in  Man.  Behind  that 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  111 

mode  of  thought  there  was  only  the  mechanical  pleasure  of 
analysis,  analysis  pushed  to  extremes,  a  sort  of  animal  desire  to 
nibble  at  thought,  the  instinct  of  a  worm.  And  side  by  side 
with  that  ideal  of  intellectual  nibbling  was  a  girlish  sensuality, 
the  sensuality  of  a  blue-stocking:  for  to  Levy-Cceur  everything 
became  literature.  Everything  was  literary  copy  to  him:  his 
own  adventures,  his  vices  and  the  vices  of  his  friends.  He  had 
written  novels  and  plays  in  which,  with  much  talent,  he  de- 
scribed the  private  life  of  his  relations,  and  their  most  in- 
timate adventures,  and  those  of  his  friends,  his  own,  his  liaisons, 
among  others  one  with  the  wife  of  his  best  friend :  the  portraits 
were  well-drawn:  everybody  praised  them,  the  public,  the  wife, 
and  his  friend.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  gain  the 
confidence  or  the  favors  of  a  woman  without  putting  them  into 
a  book. — One  would  have  thought  that  his  indiscretions  would 
have  produced  strained  relations  with  his  "  friends."  But  there 
was  nothing  of  the  kind;  they  were  hardly  more  than  a  little 
embarrassed:  they  protested  as  a  matter  of  form:  but  at  heart 
they  were  delighted  at  being  held  up  to  the  public  gaze,  en 
deshabille:  so  long  as  their  faces  were  masked,  their  modesty 
was  undisturbed.  But  there  was  never  any  spirit  of  vengeance, 
or  even  of  scandal,  in  his  tale-telling.  He  was  no  worse  a  man 
or  lover  than  the  majority.  In  the  very  chapters  in  which  he 
exposed  his  father  and  mother  and  his  mistress,  he  would 
write  of  them  with  a  poetic  tenderness  and  charm.  He  was 
really  extremely  affectionate:  but  he  was  one  of  those  men 
who  have  no  need  to  respect  when  they  love:  quite  the  con- 
trary: they  rather  love  those  whom  they  can  despise  a  little: 
that  makes  the  object  of  their  affection  seem  nearer  to  them 
and  more  human.  Such  men  are  of  all  the  least  capable  of 
understanding  heroism  and  purity.  They  are  not  far  from  con- 
sidering them  lies  or  weakness  of  mind.  It  goes  without  say- 
ing that  such  men  are  convinced  that  they  understand  better 
than  anybody  else  the  heroes  of  art  whom  they  judge  with  a 
patronizing  familiarity. 
He  got  on  excellently  well  with  the  young  women  of  the 


112  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

rich,  idle  middle-class.  He  was  a  companion  for  them,  a  sort 
of  depraved  servant,  only  more  free  and  confidential,  who  gave 
them  instruction  and  roused  their  envy.  They  had  hardly  any 
constraint  with  him:  and,  with  the  lamp  of  Psyche  in  their 
hands,  they  made  a  careful  study  of  the  hermaphrodite,  and  he 
suffered  them. 

Christophe  could  not  understand  how  a  girl  like  Colette, 
who  seemed  to  have  so  refined  a  nature  and  a  touching  eager- 
ness to  escape  from  the  degrading  round  of  her  life,  could  find 
pleasure  in  such  company.  Christophe  was  no  psychologist. 
Lucien  Levy-Cceur  could  easily  beat  him  on  that  score.  Chris- 
tophe was  Colette's  confidant:  but  Colette  was  the  confidante  of 
Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  That  gave  him  a  great  advantage.  It  is 
very  pleasant  to  a  woman  to  feel  that  she  has  to  deal  with  a 
man  weaker  than  herself.  She  finds  food  in  it  at  once  for  her 
lower  and  higher  instincts:  her  maternal  instinct  is  touched 
by  it.  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  knew  that  perfectly:  one  of  the 
surest  means  of  touching  a  woman's  heart  is  to  sound  that  mys- 
terious chord.  But  in  addition,  Colette  felt  that  she  was  weak, 
and  cowardly,  and  possessed  of  instincts  of  which  she  was  not 
proud,  though  she  was  not  inclined  to  deny  them.  It  pleased 
her  to  allow  herself  to  be  persuaded  by  the  audacious  and  nicely 
calculated  confessions  of  her  friend  that  others  were  just  the 
same,  and  that  human  nature  must  be  taken  for  what  it  is. 
And  so  she  gave  herself  the  satisfaction  of  not  resisting  in- 
clinations that  she  found  very  agreeable,  and  the  luxury  of 
saying  that  it  must  be  so,  and  that  it  was  wise  not  to  rebel 
and  to  be  indulgent  with  what  one  could  not — "  alas !  " — pre- 
vent. There  was  a  wisdom  in  that,  the  practice  of  which  con- 
tained no  element  of  pain. 

For  any  one  who  can  envisage  life  with  serenity,  there  is  a 
peculiar  relish  in  remarking  the  perpetual  contrast  which  ex- 
ists in  the  very  bosom  of  society  between  the  extreme  refine- 
ment of  apparent  civilization  and  its  fundamental  animalism. 
In  every  gathering  that  does  not  consist  only  of  fossils  and 
petrified  souls,  there  are,  as  it  were,  two  conversational  strata, 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  113 

one  above  the  other:  one — which  everybody  can  hear — between 
mind  and  mind:  the  other — of  which  very  few  are  conscious, 
though  it  is  the  greater  of  the  two — between  instinct  and  in- 
stinct, the  beast  in  man  and  woman.  Often  these  two  strata 
of  conversation  are  contradictory.  While  mind  and  mind  are 
passing  the  small  change  of  convention,  body  and  body  say: 
Desire,  Aversion,  or,  more  often:  Curiosity,  Boredom,  Disgust. 
The  beast  in  man  and  woman,  though  tamed  by  centuries  of 
civilization,  and  as  cowed  as  the  wretched  lions  in  the  tamer's 
cage,  is  always  thinking  of  its  food. 

But  Christophe  had  not  yet  reached  that  disinterestedness 
which  comes  only  with  age  and  the  death  of  the  passions.  He 
had  taken  himself  very  seriously  as  adviser  to  Colette.  She 
had  asked  for  his  help :  and  he  saw  her  in  the  lightness  of  her 
heart  exposed  to  danger.  So  he  made  no  effort  to  conceal  his 
dislike  of  Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  At  first  that  gentleman  main- 
tained towards  Christophe  an  irreproachable  and  ironical  polite- 
ness. He,  too,  scented  the  enemy:  but  he  thought  he  had 
nothing  to  fear  from  him :  he  made  fun  of  him  without  seeming 
to  do  so.  If  only  he  could  have  had  Christophe's  admiration 
he  would  have  been  on  quite  good  terms  with  him,  but  that  he 
never  -could  obtain:  he  saw  that  clearly,  for  Christophe  had 
not  the  art  of  disguising  his  feelings.  And  so  Lucien  Levy- 
Caur  passed  insensibly  from  an  abstract  intellectual  antago- 
nism to  a  little,  carefully  veiled,  war,  of  which  Colette  was  to 
be  the  prize. 

She  held  the  balance  evenly  between  her  two  friends.  She 
appreciated  Christophe's  talent  and  moral  superiority:  but  she 
also  appreciated  Lucien  Levy-Cceur's  amusing  immorality  and 
wit :  and,  at  bottom,  she  found  more  pleasure  in  it.  Christophe 
did  not  mince  his  protestations:  she  listened  to  him  with  a 
touching  humility  which  disarmed  him.  She  was  quite  a  good 
creature,  but  she  lacked  frankness,  partly  from  weakness,  partly 
from  her  very  kindness.  She  was  half  play-acting:  she  pre- 
tended to  think  with  Christophe.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
knew  the  worth  of  such  a  friend:  but  she  was  not  ready  to 


114  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

make  any  sacrifice  for  a  friendship:  she  was  not  ready  to 
sacrifice  anything  for  anybody:  she  just  wanted  everything  to 
go  smoothly  and  pleasantly.  And  so  she  concealed  from  Chris- 
tophe  the  fact  that  she  went  on  receiving  Lucien  Levy-Cceur: 
she  lied  with  the  easy  charm  of  the  young  women  of  her 
class  who,  from  their  childhood,  are  expert  in  the  practice 
which  is  so  necessary  for  those  who  wish  to  keep  their  friends 
and  please  everybody.  She  excused  herself  by  pretending  that 
she  wished  to  avoid  hurting  Christophe:  but  in  reality  it  was 
because  she  knew  that  he  was  right  and  wanted  to  go  on  doing 
as  she  liked  without  quarreling  with  him.  Sometimes  Chris- 
tophe suspected  her  tricks :  then  he  would  scold  her,  and  wax 
indignant.  She  would  go  on  playing  the  contrite  little  girl,  and 
be  affectionate  and  sorry:  and  she  would  look  tenderly  at  him 
— femince  ultima  ratio. — And  really  it  did  distress  her  to  think 
of  losing  Christophe's  friendship:  she  would  be  charmingly 
serious  and  in  that  way  succeed  in  disarming  Christophe  for 
a  little  while  longer.  But  sooner  or  later  there  had  to  be  an  ex- 
plosion. Christophe's  irritation  was  fed  unconsciously  by  a 
little  jealousy.  And  into  Colette's  coaxing  tricks  there  crept 
a  little,  a  very  little,  love,  all  of  which  made  the  rupture  only 
the  more  violent. 

One  day  when  Christophe  had  caught  Colette  out  in  a  flagrant 
lie  he  gave  her  a  definite  alternative:  she  must  choose  between 
Lucien  Levy-Cceur  and  himself.  She  tried  to  dodge  the  ques- 
tion: and,  finally,  she  vindicated  her  right  to  have  whatever 
friends  she  liked.  She  was  perfectly  right:  and  Christophe 
admitted  that  he  had  been  absurd:  but  he  knew  also  that  he 
had  not  been  exacting  from  egoism :  he  had  a  sincere  affection 
for  Colette:  he  wanted  to  save  her  even  against  her  will.  He 
insisted  awkwardly.  She  refused  to  answer.  He  said : 

"  Colette,  do  you  want  us  not  to  be  friends  any  more  ?  " 

She  replied : 

"  No,  no.     I  should  be  sorry  if  you  ceased  to  be  my  friend." 

"  But  you  will  not  sacrifice  the  smallest  thing  for  our 
friendship." 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  115 

"  Sacrifice !  What  a  silly  word !  "  she  said.  "  Why  should 
one  always  be  sacrificing  one  thing  for  another?  It's  just  a 
stupid  Christian  idea.  You're  nothing  but  an  old  parson  at 
heart." 

"  Maybe,"  he  said.  "  I  want  one  thing  or  another.  I  allow 
nothing  between  good  and  evil,  not  so  much  as  the  breadth  of 
a  hair." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  said.  "  That  is  why  I  love  you.  For  I 
do  love  you :  but  ..." 

"  But  you  love  the  other  fellow  too  ?  " 

She  laughed,  and  said,  with  a  soft  look  in  her  eyes  and  a 
tender  note  in  her  voice : 

"  Stay ! " 

He  was  just  about  to  give  in  once  more  when  Lucien  Levy- 
Cceur  came  in:  and  he  was  welcomed  with  the  same  soft  look 
in  her  eyes  and  the  same  tender  note  in  her  voice.  Chris- 
tophe  sat  for  some  time  in  silence  watching  Colette  at  her 
tricks:  then  he  went  away,  having  made  up  his  mind  to  break 
with  her.  He  was  sick  and  sorry  at  heart.  It  was  so  stupid 
to  grow  so  fond,  always  to  be  falling  into  the  trap ! 

When  he  reached  home  he  toyed  with  his  books,  and  idly 
opened  his  Bible  and  read: 

".  .  .  The  Lord  saith,  Because  the  daughters  of  Zion  are 
haughty  and  walk  with  stretched  forth  necks  and  wanton  eyes, 
walking  and  mincing  as  they  go,  and  making  a  tinkling  with 
their  feet, 

"  Therefore  the  Lord  will  smite  with  a  seal)  the  crown  of  the 
head  of  the  daughters  of  Zion,  and  the  Lord  will  discover  their 
secret  parts  ..." 

He  burst  out  laughing  as  he  thought  of  Colette's  little 
tricks:  and  he  went  to  bed  well  pleased  with  himself.  Then 
he  thought  that  he  too  must  have  become  tainted  with  the 
corruption  of  Paris  for  the  Bible  to  have  become  a  humorous 
work  to  him.  But  he  did  not  stop  saying  over  and  over  again 
the  judgment  of  the  great  judiciary  humorist:  and  he  tried  to 
imagine  its  effect  on  the  head  of  his  young  friend.  He  went 


116  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

to  sleep  laughing  like  a  child.  He  had  lost  all  thought  of  his 
new  sorrow.  One  more  or  less.  ...  He  was  getting  used 
to  it. 

He  did  not  give  up  Colette's  music-lessons:  but  he  refused 
to  take  the  opportunities  she  gave  him  of  continuing  their  in- 
timate conversations.  It  was  no  use  her  being  sorry  about  it 
or  offended,  and  trying  all  sorts  of  tricks:  he  stuck  to  his 
guns:  they  were  rude  to  each  other:  of  her  own  accord  she 
took  to  finding  excuses  for  missing  the  lessons:  and  he  also 
made  excuses  for  declining  the  Stevens'  invitations. 

He  had  had  enough  of  Parisian  society:  he  could  not  bear 
the  emptiness  of  it,  the  idleness,  the  moral  impotence,  the 
neurasthenia,  its  aimless,  pointless,  self -devour  ing  hypercriticism. 
He  wondered  how  people  could  live  in  such  a  stagnant  atmos- 
phere of  art  for  art's  sake  and  pleasure  for  pleasure's  sake. 
And  yet  the  French  did  live  in  it:  they  had  been  a  great  na- 
tion, and  they  still  cut  something  of  a  figure  in  the  world: 
at  least,  they  seemed  to  do  so  to  the  outside  spectator.  But 
where  were  the  springs  of  their  life  ?  They  believed  in  nothing, 
nothing  but  pleasure.  .  .  . 

Just  as  Christophe  reached  this  point  in  his  reflections,  he 
ran  into  a  crowd  of  young  men  and  women,  all  shouting  at  the 
tops  of  their  voices,  dragging  a  carriage  in  which  was  sitting  an 
old  priest  casting  blessings  right  and  left.  A  little  farther  on 
he  found  some  French  soldiers  battering  down  the  doors  of  a 
church  with  axes,  and  there  were  men  attacking  them  with 
chairs.  He  saw  that  the  French  did  still  believe  in  something 
— though  he  could  not  understand  in  what.  He  was  told  that 
the  State  and  the  Church  were  separated  after  a  century  of  liv- 
ing together,  and  that  as  the  Church  had  refused  to  go  with 
a  good  grace,  standing  on  its  rights  and  its  power,  it  was  being 
evicted.  To  Christophe  the  proceeding  seemed  ungallant:  but 
he  was  so  sick  of  the  anarchical  dilettantism  of  the  Parisian 
artists  that  he  was  delighted  to  find  men  ready  to  have  their 
heads  broken  for  a  cause,  however  foolish  it  might  be, 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  117 

It  was  not  long  before  he  discovered  that  there  were  many 
such  people  in  France.  The  political  journals  plunged  into 
the  fight  like  the  Homeric  heroes:  they  published  daily  calls 
to  civil  war.  It  is  true  that  it  got  no  farther  than  words,  and 
that  they  very  rarely  came  to  blows.  But  there  was  no  lack  of 
simple  souls  to  put  into  action  what  the  others  declared  in  words. 
Strange  things  happened:  departments  threatened  to  break 
away  from  France,  regiments  deserted,  prefectures  were  burned, 
tax-collectors  were  on  horseback  at  the  head  of  a  company  of 
gendarmes,  peasants  were  armed  with  scythes,  and  put  their 
kettles  on  to  boil  to  defend  the  churches,  which  the  Free 
Thinkers  were  demolishing  in  the  name  of  liberty:  there  were 
popular  redeemers  who  climbed  trees  to  address  the  provinces 
of  Wine,  that  had  risen  against  the  provinces  of  Alcohol. 
Everywhere  there  were  millions  of  men  shaking  hands,  all  red 
in  the  face  from  shouting,  and  in  the  end  all  going  for  each 
other.  The  Republic  flattered  the  people:  and  then  turned 
arms  against  them.  The  people  on  their  side  broke  the  heads 
of  a  few  of  their  own  young  men — officers  and  soldiers. — And 
so  every  one  proved  to  everybody  else  the  excellence  of  his 
cause  and  his  fists.  Looked  at  from  a  distance,  through  the 
newspapers,  it  was  as  though  the  country  had  gone  back  a 
few  centuries,  Christophe  discovered  that  France — skeptical 
France — was  a  nation  of  fanatics.  But  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  find  out  the  meaning  of  their  fanaticism.  For  or 
against  religion?  For  or  against  Reason?  For  or  against  the 
country? — They  were  for  and  against  everything.  They  were 
fanatics  for  the  pleasure  of  it. 

He  spoke  about  it  one  evening  to  a  Socialist  deputy  whom 
he  met  sometimes  at  the  Stevens'.  Although  he  had  spoken 
to  him  before,  he  had  no  idea  what  sort  of  man  he  was:  till 
then  they  had  only  talked  about  music.  Christophe  was  very 
surprised  to  learn  that  this  man  of  the  world  was  the  leader 
of  a  violent  party. 

Achilla  Roussin  was  a  handsome  man,  with  a  fair  beard,  a 


118  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

burring  way  of  talking,  a  florid  complexion,  affable  manners, 
a  certain  polish  on  his  fundamental  vulgarity,  certain  peasant 
tricks  which  from  time  to  time  he  used  in  spite  of  himself : — 
a  way  of  paring  his  nails  in  public,  a  vulgar  habit  of  catching 
hold  of  the  coat  of  the  man  he  was  talking  to,  or  gripping  him 
by  the  arm: — he  was  a  great  eater,  a  heavy  drinker,  a  high 
liver  with  a  gift  of  laughter,  and  the  appetite  of  a  man  of  the 
people  pushing  his  way  into  power:  he  was  adaptable,  quick 
to  alter  his  manners  to  sort  with  his  surroundings  and  the  per- 
son he  was  talking  to,  full  of  ideas,  and  reasonable  in  expound- 
ing them,  able  to  listen,  and  to  assimilate  at  once  everything  he 
heard:  for  the  rest  he  was  sympathetic,  intelligent,  interested 
in  everything,  naturally,  or  as  a  matter  of  acquired  habit,  or 
merely  out  of  vanity:  he  was  honest  so  far  as  was  compatible 
with  his  interests,  or  when  it  was  dangerous  not  to  be  so. 

He  had  quite  a  pretty  wife,  tall,  well  made,  and  well  set 
up,  with  a  charming  figure  which  was  a  little  too  much  shown 
off  by  her  tight  dresses,  which  accentuated  and  exaggerated 
the  rounded  curves  of  .her  anatomy :  her  face  was  framed  in 
curly  black  hair:  she  had  big  black  eyes,  a  long,  pointed  chin: 
her  face  was  big,  but  quite  charming  in  its  general  effect,  though 
it  was  spoiled  by  the  twitch  of  her  short-sighted  eyes,  and  her 
silly  little  pursed-up  mouth.  She  had  an  affected  precise  man- 
ner, like  a  bird,  and  a  simpering  way  of  talking:  but  she  was 
kindly  and  amiable.  She  came  of  a  rich  shopkeeping  family, 
broad-minded  and  virtuous,  and  she  was  devoted  to  the  count- 
less duties  of  society,  as  to  a  religion,  not  to  mention  the 
duties,  social  and  artistic,  which  she  imposed  on  herself:  she 
had  her  salon,  dabbled  in  University  Extension  movements,  and 
was  busy  with  philanthropic  undertakings  and  researches  into 
the  psychology  of  childhood, — all  without  any  enthusiasm  or 
profound  interest, — from  a  mixture  of  natural  kindness,  snob- 
bishness, and  the  harmless  pedantry  of  a  young  woman  of  edu- 
cation, who  always  seems  to  be  repeating  a  lesson,  and  taking 
a  pride  in  showing  that  she  has  learned  it  well.  She  needed  to 
be  busy,  but  she  did  not  need  to  be  interested  in  what  she  was 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  119 

doing.  It  was  like  the  feverish  industry  of  those  women  who 
always  have  a  piece  of  knitting  in  their  hands,  and  never  stop 
clicking  their  needles,  as  though  the  salvation  of  the  world 
depended  on  their  work,  which  they  themselves  do  not  know 
what  to  do  with.  And  then  there  was  in  her — as  in  women 
who  knit — the  vanity  of  the  good  woman  who  sets  an  example 
to  other  women. 

The  Deputy  had  an  affectionate  contempt  for  her.  He  had 
chosen  well  both  as  regards  his  pleasure  and  his  peace  of  mind. 
He  enjoyed  her  beauty  and  asked  no  more  of  her:  and  she 
asked  no  more  of  him.  He  loved  her  and  deceived  her.  She 
put  up  with  that,  provided  she  had  her  share  of  his  attention. 
Perhaps  also  it  gave  her  a  sort  of  pleasure.  She  was  placid 
and  sensual.  She  had  the  attitude  of  mind  of  a  woman  of  the 
harem. 

They  had  two  fine  children  of  four  and  five  years  old,  whom 
she  looked  after,  like  a  good  mother,  with  the  same  amiable, 
cold  attentiveness  with  which  she  followed  her  husband's 
political  career,  and  the  latest  fashions  in  dress  and  art.  And 
it  produced  in  her  the  most  odd  mixture  of  advanced  ideas, 
ultra-decadent  art,  polite  restlessness,  and  bourgeois  sentiment. 

They  invited  Christophe  to  go  and  see  them.  Madame  Kous- 
sin  was  a  good  musician,  and  played  the  piano  charmingly: 
she  had  a  delicate,  firm  touch:  with  her  little  head  bowed 
over  the  keyboard,  and  her  hands  poised  above  it  and  darting 
down,  she  was  like  a  pecking  hen.  She  was  talented  and  knew 
more  about  music  than  most  Frenchwomen,  but  she  was  as 
insensible  as  a  fish  to  the  deeper  meaning  of  music :  to  her  it 
was  only  a  succession  of  notes,  rhythms,  and  degrees  of  sound,  to 
which  she  listened  or  reproduced  carefully:  she  never  looked 
for  the  soul  in  it,  having  no  use  for  it  herself.  This  amiable, 
intelligent,  simple  woman,  who  was  always  ready  to  do  any 
one  a  kindness,  gave  Christophe  the  graceful  welcome  which 
she  extended  to  everybody.  Christophe  was  not  particularly 
grateful  to  her  for  it:  he  was  not  much  in  sympathy  with  her: 
she  hardly  existed  for  him.  Perhaps  it  was  that  unconsciously 


120  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

he  could  not  forgive  her  acquiescence  in  her  husband's  infidel- 
ities, of  which  she  was  by  no  means  ignorant.  Passive  accept- 
ance was  of  all  the  vices  that  which  he  could  least  excuse. 

He  was  more  intimate  with  Achille  Roussin.  Roussin  loved 
music,  as  he  loved  the  other  arts,  crudely  but  sincerely.  When 
he  liked  a  symphony,  it  became  a  thing  that  he  could  take  . 
into  his  arms.  He  had  a  superficial  culture  and  turned  it  tt)*» 
good  account:  his  wife  had  been  useful  to  him  there.  He  w^s'* 
interested  in  Christophe  because  he  saw  in  him  a  vigorous 
vulgarian  such  as  he  was  himself.  And  he  found  it  absorbing 
to  study  an  original  of  his  stamp — (he  was  unwearying  in  his 
observation  of  humanity) — and  to  discover  his  impressions  of 
Paris.  The  frankness  and  rudeness  of  Christophe's  remarks 
amused  him.  He  was  skeptic  enough  to  admit  their  truth. 
He  was  not  put  out  by  the  fact  that  Christophe  was  a  German. 
On  the  contrary:  he  prided  himself  on  being  above  national 
prejudice.  And,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  he  was  sincerely 
"human" — (that  was  his  chief  quality); — he  sympathized 
with  everything  human.  But  that  did  not  prevent  his  being 
quite  convinced  of  the  superiority  of  the  French — an  old  race, 
and  an  old  civilization — over  the  Germans,  and  making  fun  of 
the  Germans. 

At  Achille  Roussin's  Christophe  met  other  politicians,  the 
Ministers  of  yesterday,  and  the  Ministers  of  to-morrow.  He 
would  have  been  only  too  glad  to  talk  to  each  of  them  individu- 
ally, if  these  illustrious  persons  had  thought  him  worthy.  In 
spite  of  the  generally  accepted  opinion  he  found  them  much 
more  interesting  than  the  other  Frenchmen  of  his  acquaintance. 
They  were  more  alive  mentally,  more  open  to  the  passions  and 
the  great  interests  of  humanity.  They  were  brilliant  talkers, 
mostly  men  from  the  South,  and  they  were  amazingly  dilettante : 
individually  they  were  almost  as  much  so  as  the  men  of  letters. 
Of  course,  they  were  very  ignorant  about  art,  and  especially 
about  foreign  art:  but  they  all  pretended  more  or  less  to  some 
knowledge  of  it:  and  often  they  really  loved  it.  There  were 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  121 

Councils  which  were  very  like  the  coterie  of  some  little  Eeview. 
One  of  them  would  be  a  playwright:  another  would  scrape  on 
the  violin;  another  would  be  a  besotted  Wagnerian.  And  they 
all  collected  Impressionist  pictures,  read  decadent  books,  and 
prided  themselves  on  a  taste  for  some  ultra-aristocratic  art, 
which  was  almost  always  in  direct  opposition  to  their  ideas. 
It  puzzled  Christophe  to  find  these  Socialist  or  Eadical-Socialist 
Ministers,  these  apostles  of  the  poor  and  down-trodden,  posing 
as  connoisseurs  of  eclectic  art.  No  doubt  they  had  a  perfect 
right  to  do  so:  but  it  seemed  to  him  rather  disloyal. 

But  the  odd  thing  was  when  these  men  who  in  private  con- 
versation were  skeptics,  sensualists,  Nihilists,  and  anarchists, 
came  to  action:  at  once  they  became  fanatics.  Even  the  most 
dilettante  of  them  when  they  came  into  power  became  like 
Oriental  despots :  they  had  a  mania  for  ordering  everything,  and 
let  nothing  alone :  they  were  skeptical  in  mind  and  tyrannical  in 
temper.  The  temptation  to  use  the  machinery  of  administra- 
tive centralization  created  by  the  greatest  of  despots  was  too 
great,  and  it  was  difficult  not  to  abuse  it.  The  result  was  a  sort 
of  republican  imperialism  on  to  which  there  had  latterly  been 
grafted  an  atheistic  Catholicism. 

For  some  time  past  the  politicians  had  made  no  claim  to  do 
anything  but  control  the  body — that  is  to  say,  money: — they 
hardly  troubled  the  soul  at  all,  since  the  soul  could  not  be 
converted  into  money.  Their  own  souls  were  not  concerned 
with  politics:  they  passed  above  or  below  politics,  which  in 
France  are  thought  of  as  a  branch — a  lucrative,  though  not  very 
exalted  branch — of  commerce  and  industry:  the  intellectuals 
despised  the  politicians,  the  politicians  despised  the  intellectuals. 
— But  lately  there  had  been  a  closer  understanding,  then  an 
alliance,  between  the  politicians  and  the  lowest  class  of  intel- 
lectuals. A  new  power  had  appeared  upon  the  scene,  which  had 
arrogated  to  itself  the  absolute  government  of  ideas:  the  Free 
Thinkers.  They  had  thrown  in  their  lot  with  the  other  power, 
which  had  seen  in  them  the  perfect  machinery  of  political 
despotism.  They  were  trying  not  so  much  to  destroy  the 


122  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

Church  as  to  supplant  it:  and,  in  fact,  they  created  a  Church 
of  Free  Thought  which  had  its  catechisms,  and  ceremonies, 
its  baptisms,  its  confirmations,  its  marriages,  its  regional  coun- 
cils, if  not  its  ecumenicals  at  Rome.  It  was  most  pitifully 
comic  to  see  these  thousands  of  poor  wretches  having  to  band 
themselves  together  in  order  to  be  able  to  "  think  freely." 
True,  their  freedom  of  thought  consisted  in  setting  a  ban  on 
the  thought  of  others  in  the  name  of  Reason:  for  they  be- 
lieved in  Reason  as  the  Catholics  believed  in  the  Blessed 
Virgin  without  ever  dreaming  for  a  moment  that  Reason,  like 
the  Virgin,  was  in  itself  nothing,  or  that  the  real  thing  lay 
behind  it.  And,  just  as  the  Catholic  Church  had  its  armies  of 
monks  and  its  congregations  stealthily  creeping  through  the 
veins  of  the  nation,  propagating  its  views  and  destroying  every 
other  sort  of  vitality,  so  the  Anti-Catholic  Church  had  its  Free 
Masons,  whose  chief  Lodge,  the  Grand-Orient,  kept  a  faithful 
record  of  all  the  secret  reports  with  which  their  pious  informers 
in  all  quarters  of  France  supplied  them.  The  Republican  State 
secretly  encouraged  the  sacred  espionage  of  these  mendicant 
friars  and  Jesuits  of  Reason,  who  terrorized  the  army,  the  Uni- 
versity, and  every  branch  of  the  State :  and  it  was  never  noticed 
that  while  they  pretended  to  serve  the  State,  they  were  all  the 
time  aiming  at  supplanting  it,  and  that  the  country  was  slowly 
moving  towards  an  atheistic  theocracy;  very  little,  if  anything, 
different  from  that  of  the  Jesuits  of  Paraguay. 

Christophe  met  some  of  these  gentry  at  Roussin's.  They 
were  all  blind  fetish- worshippers.  At  that  time  they  were  re- 
joicing at  having  removed  Christ  from  the  Courts  of  Law.  They 
thought  they  had  destroyed  religion  because  they  had  destroyed 
a  few  pieces  of  wood  and  ivory.  Others  were  concentrating  on 
Joan  of  Arc  and  her  banner  of  the  Virgin,  which  they  had  just 
wrested  from  the  Catholics.  One  of  the  Fathers  of  the  new 
Church,  a  general  who  was  waging  war  on  the  French  of  the 
old  Church,  had  just  given  utterance  to  an  anti-clerical  speech 
in  honor  of  Vercingetorix :  he  proclaimed  the  ancient  Gaul, 
to  whom  Free  Thought  had  erected  a  statue,  to  be  a  son  of  the 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  123 

people,  and  the  first  champion  against  (the  Church  of)  Eome. 
The  Ministers  of  the  Marine,  by  way  of  purifying  the  fleet 
and  showing  their  horror  of  war,  called  their  cruisers  Descartes 
and  Ernest  Renan.  Other  Free  Thinkers  had  set  themselves 
to  purify  art.  They  expurgated  the  classics  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  did  not  allow  the  name  of  God  to  sully  the  Fables 
of  La  Fontaine.  They  did  not  allow  it  in  music  either:  and 
Christophe  heard  one  of  them,  an  old  radical, —  ("To  be  a 
radical  in  old  age,"  says  Goethe,  "  is  the  height  of  folly")  — 
wax  indignant  at  the  religious  Lieder  of  Beethoven  having  been 
given  at  a  popular  concert.  He  demanded  that  other  words 
should  be  used  instead  of  "  God." 

"What?"  asked  Christophe  in  exasperation.  "The  Re- 
public ?" 

Others  who  were  even  more  radical  would  accept  no  com- 
promise and  wanted  purely  and  simply  to  suppress  all  religious 
music  and  all  schools  in  which  it  was  taught.  In  vain  did  a 
director  of  the  University  of  Fine  Arts,  who  was  considered 
an  Athenian  in  that  Bceotia,  try  to  explain  that  musicians  must 
be  taught  music :  for,  as  he  said,  with  great  loftiness  of  thought, 
"when  you  send  a  soldier  to  the  barracks,  you  teach  him  how 
to  use  a  gun  and  then  how  to  shoot.  And  so  it  is  with  a  young 
composer:  his  head  is  buzzing  with  ideas:  but  he  has  not  yet 
learned  to  put  them  in  order."  And,  being  a  little  scared  by 
his  own  courage,  he  protested  with  every  sentence:  "I  am  an 
old  Free  Thinker.  ...  I  am  an  old  Republican  ..." 
and  he  declared  audaciously  that  "  he  did  not  care  much  whether 
the  compositions  of  Pergolese  were  operas  or  Masses :  all  that  he 
wanted  to  know  was,  were  they  human  works  of  art  ?  " — But 
his  adversary  with  implacable  logic  answered  "  the  old  Free 
Thinker  and  Republican  "  that  "  there  were  two  sorts  of  music : 
that  which  was  sung  in  churches  and  that  which  was  sung  in 
other  places."  The  first  sort  was  the  enemy  of  Reason  and  the 
State :  and  the  Reason  of  the  State  ought  to  suppress  it. 

All  these  silly  people  would  have  been  more  ridiculous  than 
dangerous  if  behind  them  there  had  not  been  men  of  real 


124  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

supporting  them,  who  were,  like  them — and  perhaps  even  more 
— fanatics  of  Reason.  Tolstoy  speaks  somewhere  of  those 
"  epidemic  influences "  which  prevail  in  religion,  philosophy, 
politics,  art,  and  science,  "  insensate  influences,  the  folly  of 
which  only  becomes  apparent  to  men  when  they  are  clear  of 
them,  while  as  long  as  they  are  under  their  dominion  they  seem 
so  true  to  them  that  they  think  them  beyond  all  argument." 
Instances  are  the  craze  for  tulips,  belief  in  sorcery,  and  the 
aberrations  of  literary  fashions. — The  religion  of  Reason  was 
such  a  craze.  It  was  common  to  the  most  ignorant  and  the 
most  cultured,  to  the  "  sub-veterinaries  "  of  the  Chamber,  and 
certain  of  the  keenest  intellects  of  the  University.  It  was  even 
more  dangerous  in  the  latter  than  in  the  former:  for  with  the 
latter  it  was  mixed  up  with  a  credulous  and  stupid  optimism, 
which  sapped  its  energy:  while  with  the  others  it  was  fortified 
and  given  a  keener  edge  by  a  fanatical  pessimism  which  was 
under  no  illusion  as  to  the  fundamental  antagonism  of  Nature 
and  Reason,  and  they  were  only  the  more  desperately  resolved 
to  wage  the  war  of  abstract  Liberty,  abstract  Justice,  abstract 
Truth,  against  the  malevolence  of  Nature.  There  was  behind 
it  all  the  idealism  of  the  Calvinists,  the  Jansenists,  and  the 
Jacobins,  the  old  belief  in  the  fundamental  perversity  of  man- 
kind, which  can  and  must  be  broken  by  the  implacable  pride 
of  the  Elect  inspired  by  the  breath  of  Reason, — the  Spirit  of 
God.  It  was  a  very  French  type,  the  type  of  intelligent  French- 
man, who  is  not  at  all  "human."  A  pebble  as  hard  as 
iron :  nothing  can  penetrate  it :  it  breaks  everything  that  it 
touches. 

Christophe  was  appalled  by  the  conversations  that  he  had  at 
Achille  Roussin's  with  some  of  these  fanatics.  It  upset  all 
his  ideas  about  France.  He  had  thought,  like  so  many  people, 
that  the  French  were  a  well-balanced,  sociable,  tolerant,  liberty- 
loving  people.  And  he  found  them  lunatics  with  their  abstract 
ideas,  their  diseased  logic,  ready  to  sacrifice  themselves  and 
everybody  else  for  one  of  their  syllogisms.  They  were  always 
talking  of  liberty,  but  there  never  were  men  less  able  to  uu- 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  125 

derstand  it  or  to  stand  it.  Nowhere  in  the  world  were  there 
characters  more  coldly  and  atrociously  despotic  in  their 
passion  for  intellect  or  their  passion  for  always  being  in  the 
right. 

And  it  was  not  only  true  of  one  party.  Every  party  was  the 
same.  They  could  not — they  would  not — see  anything  above 
or  beyond  their  political  or  religious  formula,  or  their  country, 
their  province,  their  group,  or  their  own  narrow  minds.  There 
were  anti-Semites  who  expended  all  the  forces  of  their  being  in 
a  blind,  impotent  hatred  of  all  the  privileges  of  wealth :  for  they 
hated  all  Jews,  and  called  those  whom  they  hated  "Jews." 
There  were  nationalists  who  hated — (when  they  were  kinder  they 
stopped  short  at  despising) — every  other  nation,  and  even 
among  their  own  people,  they  called  everybody  who  did  not 
agree  with  them  foreigners,  or  renegades,  or  traitors.  There 
were  anti-protestants  who  persuaded  themselves  that  all 
Protestants  were  English  or  Germans,  and  would  have  them 
all  expelled  from  France.  There  were  men  of  the  West  who 
denied  the  existence  of  anything  east  of  the  Rhine :  men  of  the 
North  who  denied  the  existence  of  everything  south  of  the 
Loire:  men  of  the  South  who  called  all  those  who  lived  north 
of  the  Loire  Barbarians:  and  there  were  men  who  boasted  of 
being  of  Gallic  descent:  and,  craziest  of  all,  there  were  "Ro- 
mans "  who  prided  themselves  on  the  defeat  of  their  ancestors : 
and  Bretons,  and  Lorrainians,  and  Felibres,  and  Albigeois;  and 
men  from  Carpentras,  and  Pontoise,  and  Quimper-Corentin : 
they  all  thought  only  of  themselves,  the  fact  of  being  them- 
selves was  sufficient  patent  of  nobility,  and  they  could  not  put 
up  with  the  idea  of  people  being  anything  else.  There  is 
nothing  to  be  done  with  such  people:  they  will  not  listen  to 
argument  from  any  other  point  of  view:  they  must  burn  every- 
body else  at  the  stake,  or  be  burned  themselves. 

Christophe  thought  that  it  was  lucky  that  such  people  should 
live  under  a  Republic:  for  all  these  little  despots  did  at  least 
annihilate  each  other.  But  if  any  one  of  them  had  become  Em- 
peror or  King,  it  would  have  been  the  end  of  him. 


126  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

He  did  not  know  that  there  is  one  virtue  left  to  work  the 
salvation  of  people  of  that  temper  of  mind : — inconsequence. 

The  French  politicians  were  no  exception.  Their  despotism 
was  tempered  with  anarchy:  they  were  for  ever  swinging  be- 
tween two  poles.  On  one  hand  they  relied  on  the  fanatics  of 
thought,  on  the  other  they  relied  on  the  anarchists  of  thought. 
Mixed  up  with  them  was  a  whole  rabble  of  dilettante  Socialists, 
mere  opportunists,  who  held  back  from  taking  any  part  in  the 
fight  until  it  was  won,  though  they  followed  in  the  wake  of  the 
army  of  Free  Thought,  and,  after  every  battle  won,  they  swooped 
down  on  the  spoils.  These  champions  of  Reason  did  not  labor 
in  the  cause  of  Reason.  .  .  .  Sic  vos  non  vobis  .  .  .  but  in 
the  cause  of  the  Citizens  of  the  World,  who  with  glad  shouts 
trampled  under  foot  the  traditions  of  the  country,  and  had  no 
intention  of  destroying  one  Faith  in  order  to  set  up  another,  but 
in  order  to  set  themselves  up  and  break  away  from  all  restraint. 

There  Christophe  marked  the  likeness  of  Lucien  Levy-Cceur. 
He  was  not  surprised  to  learn  that  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  was  a 
Socialist.  He  only  thought  that  Socialists  must  be  fairly  on 
the  road  to  success  to  have  enrolled  Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  But 
he  did  not  know  that  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  had  also  contrived  to 
figure  in  the  opposite  camp,  where  he  had  succeeded  in  allying 
himself  with  men  of  the  most  anti-Liberal  opinions,  if  not  anti- 
Semite,  in  politics  and  art.  He  asked  Achille  Roussin : 

"  How  can  you  put  up  with  such  men  ?  " 

Roussin  replied: 

"  He  is  so  clever !  And  he  is  working  for  us ;  he  is  destroy- 
ing the  old  world." 

"  He  is  doing  that  all  right,"  said  Christophe.  "  He  is  de- 
stroying it  so  thoroughly  that  I  don't  see  what  is  going  to  be 
left  for  you  to  build  up  again.  Do  you  think  there'll  be  timber 
enough  left  for  your  new  house?  And  are  you  even  sure  that 
the  worms  have  not  crept  into  your  building-yard  ?  " 

Lucien  Levy-Cceur  was  not  the  only  nibbler  at  Socialism. 
The  Socialist  papers  were  staffed  by  these  petty  men  of  letters, 
jyith  their  art  for  art's  sake,  these  licentious  anarchists  who 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  127 

had  fastened  on  all  the  roads  that  might  lead  to  success.  They 
barred  the  way  to  others,  and  filled  the  papers,  which  styled 
themselves  the  organs  of  the  people,  with  their  dilettante  deca- 
dence and  their  struggle  for  life.  They  were  not  content  with 
being  jobbed  into  positions:  they  wanted  fame.  Never  had 
there  been  a  time  when  there  were  so  many  premature  statues, 
or  so  many  speeches  delivered  at  the  unveiling  of  them.  But 
queerest  of  all  were  the  banquets  that  were  periodically  offered  to 
one  or  other  of  the  great  men  of  the  fraternity  by  the  sycophants 
of  fame,  not  in  celebration  of  any  of  their  deeds,  but  in  cele- 
bration of  some  honor  given  to  them :  for  those  were  the  things 
that  most  appealed  to  them.  Esthetes,  supermen,  Socialist  Min- 
isters, they  were  all  agreed  when  it  was  a  question  of  feasting 
to  celebrate  some  promotion  in  the  Legion  of  Honor  founded 
by  the  Corsican  officer. 

Roussin  laughed  at  Christophe's  amazement.  He  did  not 
think  the  German  far  out  in  his  estimation  of  the  supporters  of 
his  party.  When  they  were  alone  together  he  would  handle 
them  severely  himself.  He  knew  their  stupidity  and  their 
knavery  better  than  any  one:  but  that  did  not  keep  him  from 
supporting  them  in  order  to  retain  their  support.  And  if  in 
private  he  never  hesitated  to  speak  of  the  people  in  terms  of 
contempt,  on  the  platform  he  was  a  different  man.  Then  he 
would  assume  a  high-pitched  voice,  shrill,  nasal,  labored,  solemn 
tones,  a  tremolo,  a  bleat,  wide,  sweeping,  fluttering  gestures  like 
the  beating  of  wings :  exactly  like  Mounet-Sully. 

Christophe  tried  hard  to  discover  exactly  how  far  Roussin 
believed  in  his  Socialism.  It  was  obvious  that  at  heart  he  did 
not  believe  in  it  at  all:  he  was  too  skeptical.  And  yet  he  did 
believe  in  it,  to  a  certain  extent :  and  though  he  knew  perfectly 
well  that  it  was  only  a  part  of  his  mind  that  believed  in  it — 
(perhaps  the  most  important  part) — he  had  arranged  his  life 
and  conduct  in  accordance  with  it,  because  it  suited  him  best. 
It  was  not  only  his  practical  interest  that  was  served  by  it, 
but  also  his  vital  interests,  the  foundations  of  his  being  and 
all  his  actions.  His  Socialistic  Faith  was  to  him  a  sort  of 


128  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

State  religion. — Most  people  live  like  that.  Their  lives  are 
based  on  religious,  moral,  social,  or  purely  practical  beliefs, — 
(belief  in  their  profession,  in  their  work,  in  the  utility  of  the 
part  they  play  in  life) — in  which  they  do  not,  at  heart,  believe. 
But  they  do  not  wish  to  know  it:  for  they  must  have  this  ap- 
parent faith,  this  "  State  religion,"  of  which  every  man  is  priest, 
to  live. 

Roussin  was  not  one  of  the  worst.  There  were  many,  many 
others  who  called  themselves  Socialists  and  Radicals,  from — it 
can  hardly  be  called  ambition,  for  their  ambition  was  so  short- 
sighted, and  did  not  go  beyond  immediate  plunder  and  their  re- 
election !  They  pretended  to  believe  in  a  new  order  of  society. 
Perhaps  there  was  a  time  when  they  believed  in  it:  and  they 
went  on  pretending  to  do  so:  but,  in  fact,  they  had  no  idea 
beyond  living  on  the  spoils  of  the  dying  order  of  society.  This 
predatory  Nihilism  was  saved  by  a  short-sighted  opportunism. 
The  great  interests  of  the  future  were  sacrificed  to  the  egoism 
of  the  present.  They  cut  down  the  army;  they  would  have 
dislocated  the  country  to  please  the  electors.  They  were  not 
lacking  in  cleverness :  they  knew  perfectly  well  what  they  ought 
to  have  done:  but  they  did  not  do  it,  because  it  would  have 
cost  them  too  much  effort,  and  they  were  incapable  of  effort. 
They  wanted  to  arrange  their  own  lives  and  the  life  of  the 
nation  with  the  least  possible  amount  of  trouble  and  sacrifice. 
All  down  the  scale  the  point  was  to  get  the  maximum  of 
pleasure  with  the  minimum  of  effort.  That  was  their  morality, 
immoral  enough,  but  it  was  the  only  guide  in  the  political 
muddle,  in  which  the  leaders  set  the  example  of  anarchy,  and 
the  disordered  pack  of  politicians  were  chasing  ten  hares  at 
once,  and  letting  them  all  escape  one  after  the  other,  and 
an  aggressive  Foreign  Office  was  yoked  with  a  pacific  War 
Office,  and  Ministers  of  War  were  cutting  down  the  army  in 
order  to  purify  it,  Naval  Ministers  were  inciting  the  work- 
men in  the  arsenals,  military  instructors  were  preaching  the 
horrors  of  war,  and  all  the  officials,  judges,  revolutionaries,  and 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  129 

patriots  were  dilettante.  The  political  demoralization  was  uni- 
versal. Every  man  was  expecting  the  State  to  provide  him 
with  office,  honors,  pensions,  indemnities:  and  the  Government 
did,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  feed  the  appetite  of  its  supporters: 
honors  and  pensions  were  made  the  quarry  of  the  sons,  nephews, 
grand-nephews,  and  valets  of  those  in  power:  the  deputies  were 
always  voting  an  increase  in  their  own  salaries :  revenues,  posts, 
titles,  all  the  possessions  of  the  State,  were  being  blindly  squan- 
dered.— And,  like  a  sinister  echo  of  the  example  of  the  upper 
classes,  the  lower  classes  were  always  on  the  verge  of  a  strike: 
they  had  men  teaching  contempt  of  authority  and  revolt  against 
the  established  order;  post-office  employes  burned  letters  and 
despatches,  workers  in  factories  threw  sand  or  emery-powder 
into  the  gears  of  the  machines,  men  working  in  the  arsenals 
sacked  them,  ships  were  burned,  and  artisans  deliberately  made 
a  horrible  mess  of  their  work, — the  destruction  not  of  riches,  but 
of  the  wealth  of  the  world. 

And  to  crown  it  all  the  intellectuals  amused  themselves  by 
discovering  that  this  national  suicide  was  based  on  reason  and 
right,  in  the  sacred  right  of  every  human  being  to  be  happy. 
There  was  a  morbid  humanitarianism  which  broke  down  the 
distinction  between  Good  and  Evil,  and  developed  a  sentimental 
pity  for  the  "sacred  and  irresponsible  human"  in  the  crim- 
inal, the  doting  sentimentality  of  an  old  man: — it  was  a  capit- 
ulation to  crime,  the  surrender  of  society  to  its  mercies. 

Christophe  thought: 

"  France  is  drunk  with  liberty.  When  she  has  raved  and 
screamed,  she  will  fall  down  dead-drunk.  And  when  she  wakes 
up  she  will  find  herself  in  prison." 

What  hurt  Christophe  most  in  this  demagogy  was  to  see  the 
most  violent  political  measures  coldly  carried  through  by  these 
men  whose  fundamental  instability  he  knew  perfectly  well. 
The  disproportion  between  the  shiftiness  of  these  men  and 
the  rigorous  Acts  that  they  passed  or  authorized  was  too  scan- 
dalous, It  was  as  though  there  were  in  them  two  contradictory 


130  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

things :  an  inconsistent  character,  believing  in  nothing,  and  dis- 
cursive Eeason,  intent  on  truncating,  mowing  down,  and  crushing 
life,  without  regard  for  anything.  Christophe  wondered  why 
the  peaceful  middle-class,  the  Catholics,  the  officials  who  were 
harassed  in  every  conceivable  way,  did  not  throw  them  all  out 
by  the  window.  He  dared  not  tell  Roussin  what  he  thought: 
but,  as  he  was  incapable  of  concealing  anything,  Roussin  had  no 
difficulty  in  guessing  it.  He  laughed  and  said : 

"No  doubt  that  is  what  you  or  I  would  do.  But  there  is 
no  danger  of  them  doing  it.  They  are  just  a  set  of  poor  devils 
who  haven't  the  energy :  they  can't  do  much  more  than  grumble. 
They're  just  the  fag  end  of  an  aristocracy,  idiotic,  stultified  by 
their  clubs  and  their  sport,  prostituted  by  the  Americans  and 
the  Jews,  and,  by  way  of  showing  how  up  to  date  they  are,  they 
play  the  degraded  parts  allotted  to  them  in  fashionable  plays, 
and  support  those  who  have  degraded  them.  They're  an  apa- 
thetic and  surly  middle-class:  they  read  nothing,  understand 
nothing,  don't  want  to  understand  anything;  they  only  know 
how  to  vilify,  vilify,  vaguely,  bitterly,  futilely — and  they  have 
only  one  passion :  sleep,  to  lie  huddled  in  sleep  on  their  money- 
bags, hating  anybody  who  disturbs  them,  and  even  anybody  whose 
tastes  differ  from  theirs,  for  it  does  upset  them  to  think  of 
other  people  working  while  they  are  snoozing!  If  you  knew 
them  you  would  sympathize  with  us." 

But  Christophe  could  find  nothing  but  disgust  with  both: 
for  he  did  not  hold  that  the  baseness  of  the  oppressed  was  any 
excuse  for  that  of  the  oppressor.  Only  too  frequently  had  he 
met  at  the  Stevens'  types  of  the  rich  dull  middle-class  that 
Roussin  described, 

"...  L'anime  triste  di  coloro, 
Che  visser  senza  infamia  esenza  lodo,  ..." 

He  saw  only  too  clearly  the  reason  why  Roussin  and  his 
friends  were  sure  not  only  of  their  power  over  these  people, 
but  of  their  right  to  abuse  it.  They  had  to  hand  all  the  in- 
struments of  tyranny.  Thousands  of  officials,  who  had  re- 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  131 

nounced  their  will  and  every  vestige  of  personality,  and  obeyed 
blindly.  A  loose,  vulgar  way  of  living,  a  Eepublic  without 
Republicans:  Socialist  papers  and  Socialist  leaders  groveling 
before  Royalties  when  they  visited  Paris:  the  souls  of  servants 
gaping  at  titles,  and  gold  lace,  and  orders:  they  could  be  kept 
quiet  by  just  having  a  bone  to  gnaw,  or  the  Legion  of  Honor 
flung  at  them.  If  the  Kings  had  ennobled  all  the  citizens  of 
France,  all  the  citizens  of  France  would  have  been  Royalist. 

The  politicians  were  having  a  fine  time.  Of  the  Three 
Estates  of  '89  the  first  was  extinct:  the  second  was  proscribed, 
suspect,  or  had  emigrated:  the  third  was  gorged  by  its  vic- 
tory and  slept.  And,  as  for  the  Fourth  Estate,  which  had  come 
into  existence  at  a  later  date,  and  had  become  a  public  menace 
in  its  jealousy,  there  was  no  difficulty  about  squaring  that.  The 
decadent  Republic  treated  it  as  decadent  Rome  treated  the  bar- 
barian hordes,  that  she  no  longer  had  the  power  to  drive  from 
her  frontiers;  she  assimilated  them,  and  they  quickly  became 
her  best  watch-dogs.  The  Ministers  of  the  middle-class  called 
themselves  Socialists,  lured  away  and  annexed  to  their  own 
party  the  most  intelligent  and  vigorous  of  the  working-class: 
they  robbed  the  proletariat  of  their  leaders,  infused  their  new 
blood  into  their  own  system,  and,  in  return,  gorged  them  with 
indigestible  science  and  middle-class  culture. 

One  of  the  most  curious  features  of  these  attempts  at  distraint 
by  the  middle-class  on  the  people  were  the  Popular  Universities. 
They  were  little  jumble-sales  of  scraps  of  knowledge  of  every 
period  and  every  country.  As  one  syllabus  declared,  they  set 
out  to  teach  "every  branch  of  physical,  biological,  and  so- 
ciological science:  astronomy,  cosmology,  anthropology,  eth- 
nology, physiology,  psychology,  psychiatry,  geography,  languages, 
esthetics,  logic,  etc."  Enough  to  split  the  skull  of  Pico  della 
Mirandola. 

In  truth  there  had  been  originally,  and  still  was  in  some  of 
them,  a  certain  grand  idealism,  a  keen  desire  to  bring  truth, 
beauty,  and  morality  within  the  reach  of  all,  which  was  a  very 


132  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

fine  thing.  It  was  wonderful  and  touching  to  see  workmen, 
after  a  hard  day's  toil,  crowding  into  narrow,  stuffy  lecture- 
rooms,  impelled  by  a  thirst  for  knowledge  that  was  stronger 
than  fatigue  and  hunger.  But  how  the  poor  fellows  had  been 
tricked!  There  were  a  few  real  apostles,  intelligent  human 
beings,  a  few  upright  warm-hearted  men,  with  more  good  inten- 
tions than  skill  to  accomplish  them;  but,  as  against  them,  there 
were  hundreds  of  fools,  idiots,  schemers,  unsuccessful  authors, 
orators,  professors,  parsons,  speakers,  pianists,  critics,  anarchists, 
who  deluged  the  people  with  their  productions.  Every  man 
jack  of  them  was  trying  to  unload  his  stock-in-trade.  The 
most  thriving  of  them  were  naturally  the  nostrum-mongers,  the 
philosophical  lecturers  who  ladled  out  general  ideas,  leavened 
with  a  few  facts,  a  scientific  smattering,  and  cosmological  con- 
clusions. 

The  Popular  Universities  were  also  an  outlet  for  the  ultra- 
aristocratic  works  of  art:  decadent  etchings,  poetry,  and  music. 
The  aim  was  the  elevation  of  the  people  for  the  rejuvenation  of 
thought  and  the  regeneration  of  the  race.  They  began  by  in- 
oculating them  with  all  the  fads  and  cranks  of  the  middle- 
class.  They  gulped  them  down  greedily,  not  because  they  liked 
them,  but  because  they  were  middle-class.  Christophe,  who  was 
taken  to  one  of  these  Popular  Universities  by  Madame  Rous- 
sin,  heard  her  play  Debussy  to  the  people  between  la  Bonne 
Chanson  of  Gabriel  Faure  and  one  of  the  later  quartets  of 
Beethoven.  He  who  had  only  begun  to  grasp  the  meaning  of 
the  later  works  of  Beethoven  after  many  years,  and  long 
weary  labor,  asked  some  one  who  sat  near  him  pityingly : 

"  Do  you  understand  it  ?  " 

The  man  drew  himself  up  like  an  angry  cock,  and  said : 

"  Certainly.  Why  shouldn't  I  understand  it  as  well  as 
you?" 

And  by  way  of  showing  that  he  understood  it  he  encored  a 
fugue,  glaring  defiantly  at  Christophe. 

Christophe  went  away.  He  was  amazed.  He  said  to  him- 
self that  the  swine  had  succeeded  in  poisoning  even  the  living 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  133 

wells  of  the  nation :  the  People  had  ceased  to  be — "  People 
yourselves ! "  as  a  working-man  said  to  one  of  the  would-be 
founders  of  the  Theaters  of  the  People.  "  I  am  as  much  of  the 
middle-class  as  you/' 

One  fine  evening  when  above  the  darkening  town  the  soft 
sky  was  like  an  Oriental  carpet,  rich  in  warm  faded  colors, 
Christophe  walked  along  by  the  river  from  Notre  Dame  to  the 
Invalides.  In  the  dim  fading  light  the  tower  of  the  cathedral 
rose  like  the  arms  of  Moses  held  up  during  the  battle.  The 
carved  golden  spire  of  the  Sainte-Chapelle,  the  flowering  Holy 
Thorn,  flashed  out  of  the  labyrinth  of  houses.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  water  stretched  the  royal  front  of  the  Louvre,  and  its 
windows  were  like  weary  eyes  lit  up  with  the  last  living  rays 
of  the  setting  sun.  At  the  back  of  the  great  square  of  the 
Invalides  behind  its  trenches  and  proud  walls,  majestic,  solitary, 
floated  the  dull  gold  dome,  like  a  symphony  of  bygone  victories. 
And  at  the  top  of  the  hill  there  stood  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  be- 
striding the  hill  with  the  giant  stride  of  the  Imperial  legions. 

And  suddenly  Christophe  thought  of  it  all  as  of  a  dead  giant 
lying  prone  upon  the  plain.  The  terror  of  it  clutched  at  his 
heart;  he  stopped  to  gaze  at  the  gigantic  fossils  of  a  fabulous 
race,  long  since  extinct,  that  in  its  life  had  made  the  whole 
earth  ring  with  the  tramp  of  its  armies, — the  race  whose  helmet 
was  the  dome  of  the  Invalides,  whose  girdle  was  the  Louvre,  the 
thousand  arms  of  whose  cathedrals  had  clutched  at  the  heavens, 
who  traversed  the  whole  world  with  the  triumphant  stride  of  the 
Arch  of  Napoleon,  under  whose  heel  there  now  swarmed  Lilliput. 


Ill 

WITHOUT  any  deliberate  effort  on  his  part,  Christophe  had 
gained  a  certain  celebrity  in  the  Parisian  circles  to  which  he 
had  been  introduced  by  Sylvain  Kohn  and  Goujart.  He  was 
seen  everywhere  with  one  or  other  of  his  friends  at  first  nights, 


134  JEAtf-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

and  at  concerts,  and  his  extraordinary  face,  his  ugliness,  the 
absurdity  of  his  figure  and  costume,  his  brusque,  awkward  man- 
ners, the  paradoxical  opinions  to  which  he  gave  vent  from  time 
to  time,  his  undeveloped,  but  large  and  healthy  intellect,  and 
the  romantic  stories  spread  by  Sylvain  Kohn  about  his  escapades 
in  Germany,  and  his  complications  with  the  police  and  flight 
to  France,  had  marked  him  out  for  the  idle,  restless  curiosity 
of  the  great  cosmopolitan  hotel  drawing-room  that  Paris  has 
become.  As  long  as  he  held  himself  in  check,  observing,  listen- 
ing, and  trying  to  understand  before  expressing  any  opinion, 
as  long  as  nothing  was  known  of  his  work  or  what  he  really 
thought,  he  was  tolerated.  The  French  were  pleased  with  him 
for  having  been  unable  to  stay  in  Germany.  And  the  French 
musicians  especially  were  delighted  with  Christophe's  unjust 
pronouncements  on  German  music,  and  took  them  all  as 
homage  to  themselves: — (as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  heard  only 
his  old  youthful  opinions,  to  many  of  which  he  would  no  longer 
have  subscribed:  a  few  articles  published  in  a  German  Review 
which  had  been  amplified  and  circulated  by  Sylvain  Kohn). — 
Christophe  was  interesting  and  did  not  interfere  with  any- 
body: there  was  no  danger  of  his  supplanting  anybody.  He 
needed  only  to  become  the  great  man  of  a  coterie.  He  needed 
only  not  to  write  anything,  or  as  little  as  possible,  and  not  to 
have  anything  performed,  and  to  supply  Goujart  and  his  like 
with  ideas,  Goujart  and  the  whole  set  of  men  whose  motto  is  the 
famous  quip — adapted  a  little : 

"My  glass  is  small:  but  I  drink  .  .  .  the  wine  of  others" 
A  strong  personality  sheds  its  rays  especially  on  young  peo- 
ple who  are  more  concerned  with  feeling  than  with  action. 
There  were  plenty  of  young  people  about  Christophe.  They 
were  for  the  most  part  idle,  will-less,  aimless,  purposeless. 
Young  men,  living  in  dread  of  work,  fearful  of  being  left 
alone  with  themselves,  who  sought  an  armchair  immortality, 
wandering  from  cafe  to  theater,  from  theater  to  cafe,  finding 
all  sorts  of  excuses  for  not  going  home,  to  avoid  coming  face 
to  face  with  themselves.  They  came  and  stayed  for  hours, 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  135 

dawdling,  talking,  making  aimless  conversation,  and  going 
away  empty,  aching,  disgusted,  satiated,  and  yet  famishing, 
forced  to  go  on  with  it  in  spite  of  loathing.  They  surrounded 
Christophe,  like  Goethe's  water-spaniel,  the  "  lurking  specters," 
that  lie  in  wait  and  seize  upon  a  soul  and  fasten  upon  its  vitality. 
A  vain  fool  would  have  found  pleasure  in  such  a  circle  of 
parasites.  But  Christophe  had  no  taste  for  pedestals.  He 
was  revolted  by  the  idiotic  subtlety  of  his  admirers,  who  read 
into  anything  he  did  all  sorts  of  absurd  meanings,  Eenanian, 
Nietzschean,  hermaphroditic.  He  kicked  them  out.  He  was 
not  made  for  passivity.  Everything  in  him  cried  aloud  for 
action.  He  observed  so  as  to  understand :  he  wished  to  un- 
derstand so  as  to  act.  He  was  free  of  the  constraint  of  any 
school,  and  of  any  prejudice,  and  he  inquired  into  everything, 
read  everything,  and  studied  all  the  forms  of  thought  and  the 
resources  of  the  expression  of  other  countries  and  other  ages  in 
his  art.  He  seized  on  all  those  which  seemed  to  him  effective 
and  true.  Unlike  the  French  artists  whom  he  studied,  who 
were  ingenious  inventors  of  new  forms,  and  wore  themselves 
out  in  the  unceasing  effort  of  invention,  and  gave  up  the 
struggle  half-way,  he  endeavored  not  so  much  to  invent  a  new 
musical  language  as  to  speak  the  authentic  language  of  music 
with  more  energy:  his  aim  was  not  to  be  particular,  but  to  be 
strong.  His  passion  for  strength  was  the  very  opposite  of  the 
French  genius  of  subtlety  and  moderation.  He  scorned  style 
for  the  sake  of  style  and  art  for  art's  sake.  The  best  French 
artists  seemed  to  him  to  be  no  more  than  pleasure-mongers.  One 
of  the  most  perfect  poets  in  Paris  had  amused  himself  with 
drawing  up  a  "  list  of  the  workers  in  contemporary  French 
poetry,  with  their  talents,  their  productions,  and  their  earn- 
ings " :  and  he  enumerated  "  the  crystals,  the  Oriental  fabrics,  the 
gold  and  bronze  medals,  the  lace  for  dowagers,  the  polychromatic 
sculpture,  the  painted  porcelain,"  which  had  been  produced  in 
the  workshops  of  his  various  colleagues.  He  pictured  him- 
self "in  the  corner  of  a  vast  factory  of  letters,  mending  old 
tapestry,  or  polishing  up  rusty  halberds." — Such  a  conception  of 


136  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

the  artist  as  a  good  workman,  thinking  only  of  the  perfection  of 
his  craft,  was  not  without  an  element  of  greatness.  But  it  did 
not  satisfy  Christophe:  and  while  he  admitted  in  it  a  certain 
professional  dignity,  he  had  a  contempt  for  the  poor  quality  of 
life  which  most  often  it  disguised.  He  could  not  understand 
writing  for  the  sake  of  writing,  or  talking  for  the  sake  of 
talking.  He  never  said  words;  he  said — or  wanted  to  say — 
the  things  themselves. 

"  Ei  dice  cose,  e  voi  dite  parole  ..." 

After  a  long  period  of  rest,  during  which  he  had  been  en- 
tirely occupied  with  taking  in  a  new  world,  Christophe  sud- 
denly became  conscious  of  an  imperious  need  for  /  creation. 
The  antagonism  which  he  felt  between  himself  and  Paris 
called  up  all  his  reserve  of  force  by  its  challenge  of  his  per- 
sonality. All  his  passions  were  brimming  in  him,  and  imperi- 
ously demanding  expression.  They  were  of  every  kind:  and 
they  were  all  equally  insistent.  He  tried  to  create,  to  fashion 
music,  into  which  to  turn  the  love  and  hatred  that  were 
swelling  in  his  heart,  and  the  will  and  the  renunciation,  and 
all  the  daimons  struggling  within  him,  all  of  whom  had  an 
equal  right  to  live.  Hardly  had  he  assuaged  one  passion  in 
music, —  (sometimes  he  hardly  had  the  patience  to  finish  it)  — 
than  he  hurled  himself  at  the  opposite  passion.  But  the  con- 
tradiction was  only  apparent:  if  they  were  always  changing, 
they  were  in  truth  always  the  same.  He  beat  out  roads  in 
music,  roads  that  led  to  the  same  goal :  his  soul  was  a  mountain : 
he  tried  every  pathway  up  it;  on  some  he  wound  easily,  dally- 
ing in  the  shade :  on  others  he  mounted  toilsomely  with  the  hot 
sun  beating  up  from  the  dry,  sandy  track:  they  all  led  to  God 
enthroned  on  the  summit.  Love,  hatred,  evil,  renunciation,  all 
the  forces  of  humanity  at  their  highest  pitch,  touched  eternity, 
and  were  a  part  of  it.  For  every  man  the  gateway  to  eternity 
is  in  himself:  for  the  believer  as  for  the  atheist,  for  him  who 
sees  life  everywhere  as  for  him  who  everywhere  denies  it,  and 
for  him  who  doubts  both  life  and  the  denial  of  it, — and  for 
Christophe  in  whose  soul  there  met  all  these  opposing  views  of 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  137 

life.  All  the  opposites  become  one  in  eternal  Force.  For 
Christophe  the  chief  thing  was  to  wake  that  Force  within  him- 
self and  in  others,  to  fling  armfuls  of  wood  upon  the  fire,  to 
feed  the  flames  of  Eternity,  and  make  them  roar  and  flicker. 
Through  the  voluptuous  night  of  Paris  a  great  flame  darted 
in  his  heart.  He  thought  himself  free  of  Faith,  and  he  was 
a  living  torch  of  Faith. 

Nothing  was  more  calculated  to  outrage  the  French  spirit 
of  irony.  Faith  is  one  of  the  feelings  which  a  too  civilized 
society  can  least  forgive:  for  it  has  lost  it  and  hates  others 
to  possess  it.  In  the  blind  or  mocking  hostility  of  the  majority 
of  men  towards  the  dreams  of  youth  there  is  for  many  the 
bitter  thought  that  they  themselves  were  once  even  as  they,  and 
had  ambitions  and  never  realized  them.  All  those  who  have 
denied  their  souls,  all  those  who  had  the  seed  of  work  within 
them,  and  have  not  brought  it  forth  rather  to  accept  the  security 
of  an  easy,  honorable  life,  think : 

"  Since  I  could  not  do  the  thing  I  dreamed,  why  should  they 
do  the  things  they  dream?  I  will  not  have  them  do  it." 

How  many  Hedda  Gablers  are  there  among  men!  What  a 
relentless  struggle  is  there  to  crush  out  strength  in  its  new 
freedom,  with  what  skill  is  it  killed  by  silence,  irony,  wear  and 
tear,  discouragement, — and,  at  the  crucial  moment,  betrayed  by 
some  treacherous  seductive  art !  .  .  . 

The  type  is  of  all  nations.  Christophe  knew  it,  for  he  had 
met  it  in  Germany.  Against  such  people  he  was  armed.  His 
method  of  defense  was  simple:  he  was  the  first  to  attack; 
pounced  on  the  first  move,  and  declared  war  on  them :  he  forced 
these  dangerous  friends  to  become  his  enemies.  But  if  such  a 
policy  of  frankness  was  an  excellent  safeguard  for  his  per- 
sonality, it  was  not  calculated  to  advance  his  career  as  an  artist. 
Once  more  Christophe  began  his  German  tactics.  It  was  too 
strong  for  him.  Only  one  thing  was  altered :  his  temper :  he  was 
in  fine  fettle. 

Lightheartedly,  for  the  benefit  of  anybody  who  cared  to 
listen;  he  expressed  his  unmeasured  criticism  of  French  artists: 


138  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

and  so  he  made  many  enemies.  He  did  not  take  the  precau- 
tion, as  a  wise  man  would  have  done,  of  surrounding  himself 
with  a  little  coterie.  He  would  have  found  no  difficulty  in 
gathering  about  him  a  number  of  artists  who  would  gladly 
have  admired  him  if  he  had  admired  them.  There  were  some 
who  admired  him  in  advance,  investing  admiration  as  it  were. 
They  considered  any  man  they  praised  as  a  debtor,  of  whom, 
at  a  given  moment,  they  could  demand  repayment.  But  it  was 
a  good  investment. — But  Christophe  was  a  very  bad  investment. 
He  never  paid  back.  Worse  than  that,  he  was  barefaced 
enough  to  consider  poor  the  works  of  men  who  thought  his 
good.  Unavowedly  they  were  rancorous,  and  engaged  them- 
selves on  the  next  opportunity  to  pay  him  back  in  kind. 

Among  his  other  indiscretions  Christophe  was  foolish  enough 
to  declare  war  on  Lucien  Levy-Coeur.  He  found  him  in  the 
way,  everywhere,  and  he  could  not  conceal  an  extraordinary 
antipathy  for  the  gentle,  polite  creature  who  was  doing  no 
apparent  harm,  and  even  seemed  to  be  kinder  than  himself,  and 
was,  at  any  rate,  far  more  moderate.  He  provoked  him  into 
argument :  and,  however  insignificant  the  subject  of  it  might  be, 
Christophe  always  brought  into  it  a  sudden  heat  and  bitterness 
which  surprised  their  hearers.  It  was  as  though  Christophe 
were  seizing  every  opportunity  of  battering  at  Lucien  Levy- 
Cceur,  head  down:  but  he  could  never  reach  him.  His  enemy 
had  an  extraordinary  skill,  even  when  he  was  most  obviously  in 
the  wrong,  in  carrying  it  off  well :  he  would  defend  himself 
with  a  courtesy  which  showed  up  Christophe's  bad  manners. 
Christophe  still  spoke  French  very  badly,  interlarding  it  with 
slang,  and  often  with  very  coarse  expressions  which  he  had 
picked  up,  and,  like  many  foreigners,  used  wrongly,  and  he 
was  incapable  of  outwitting  the  tactics  of  Lucien  Levy-Coeur: 
and  he  raged  furiously  against  his  gentle  irony.  Everybody 
thought  him  in  the  wrong,  for  they  could  not  see  what  Chris- 
tophe vaguely  felt:  the  hypocrisy  of  that  gentleness,  which, 
when  it  was  brought  up  against  a  force  which  it  could  not 
hold  in  check,  tried  quietly  to  stifle  it  by  silence.  He  was  in 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  139 

no  hurry,  for,  like  Christophe,  he  counted  on  time,  not,  as 
Christophe  did,  to  build,  but  to  destroy.  He  had  no  difficulty 
in  detaching  Sylvain  Kohn  and  Goujart  from  Christophe,  just 
as  he  had  gradually  forced  him  out  of  the  Stevens'  circle. 
He  was  isolating  Christophe. 

Christophe  himself  helped  him.  He  pleased  nobody,  for  he 
would  not  join  any  party,  but  was  rather  against  all  parties. 
He  did  not  like  the  Jews:  but  he  liked  the  anti-Semites  even 
less.  He  was  revolted  by  the  cowardice  of  the  masses  stirred 
up  against  a  powerful  minority,  not  because  it  was  bad,  but  be- 
cause it  was  powerful,  and  by  the  appeal  to  the  basest  instincts 
of  jealousy  and  hatred.  The  Jews  came  to  regard  him  as 
an  anti-Semite,  and  the  anti-Semites  looked  on  him  as  a  Jew. 
As  for  the  artists,  they  felt  his  hostility.  Instinctively  Chris- 
tophe made  himself  more  German  than  he  was,  in  art.  Re- 
volting  against  the  voluptuous  ataraxia  of  a  certain  class  of 
Parisian  music,  he  set  up,  with  violence,  a  manly,  healthy  pes- 
simism. When  joy  appeared  in  his  music,  it  was  with  a  want  of 
taste,  a  vulgar  ardor,  which  were  well  calculated  to  disgust  even 
the  aristocratic  patrons  of  popular  art.  An  erudite,  crude 
form.  In  his  reaction  he  was  not  far  from  affecting  an  ap- 
parent carelessness  in  style  and  a  disregard  of  external  origi- 
nality, which  were  bound  to  be  offensive  to  the  French  musicians. 
And  so  those  of  them,  to  whom  he  sent  some  of  his  work,  with- 
out any  careful  consideration,  visited  on  it  the  contempt  they 
had  for  the  belated  Wagnerism  of  the  contemporary  German 
school.  Christophe  did  not  care:  he  laughed  inwardly,  and  re- 
peated the  lines  of  a  charming  musician  of  the  French  Renais- 
sance— adapted  to  his  own  case: 


"  Come,  come,  don't  worry  about  those  who  will  say: 
'  Christophe  has  not  the  counterpoint  of  A, 
And  fie  has  not  such  harmony  as  Monsieur  B.' 
I  have  something  else  which  tfiey  never  will  see." 

But  when  he  tried  to  have  some  of  his  mu&ic  performed,  he 
found  the  doors  shut  against  him.     They  had  quite  enough 


140  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

to  do  to  play — or  not  to  play — the  works  of  young  French 
musicians,  and  could  not  bother  about  those  of  an  unknown 
German. 

Christophe  did  not  go  on  trying.  He  shut  himself  up  in 
his  room  and  went  on  writing.  He  did  not  much  care  whether 
the  people  of  Paris  heard  him  or  not.  He  wrote  for  his  own 
pleasure  and  not  for  success.  The  true  artist  is  not  concerned 
with  the  future  of  his  work.  He  is  like  those  painters  of  the 
Renaissance  who  joyously  painted  mural  decorations,  knowing 
full  well  that  in  ten  years  nothing  would  be  left  of  them.  So 
Christophe  worked  on  in  peace,  quite  good-humoredly  resigned  to 
waiting  for  better  times,  when  help  would  come  to  him  from 
some  unexpected  source. 

Christophe  was  then  attracted  by  the  dramatic  form.  He 
dared  not  yet  surrender  freely  to  the  flood  of  his  own  lyrical 
impulse.  He  had  to  run  it  into  definite  channels.  And,  no 
doubt,  it  is  a  good  thing  for  a  young  man  of  genius,  who 
is  not  yet  master  of  himself,  and  does  not  even  know  ex- 
actly what  he  is,  to  set  voluntary  bounds  upon  himself,  and  to 
confine  therein  the  soul  of  which  he  has  so  little  hold.  They 
are  the  dikes  and  sluices  which  allow  the  course  of  thought  to 
be  directed. — Unfortunately  Christophe  had  not  a  poet:  he  had 
himself  to  fashion  his  subjects  out  of  legend  and  history. 

Among  the  visions  which  had  been  floating  before  his  mind 
for  some  months  past  were  certain  figures  from  the  Bible. — 
That  Bible,  which  his  mother  had  given  him  as  a  companion 
in  his  exile,  had  been  a  source  of  dreams  to  him.  Although 
he  did  not  read  it  in  any  religious  spirit,  the  moral,  or,  rather, 
vital  energy  of  that  Hebraic  Iliad  had  been  to  him  a  spring 
in  which,  in  the  evenings,  he  washed  his  naked  soul  of  the 
smoke  and  mud  of  Paris.  He  was  concerned  with  the  sacred 
meaning  of  the  book:  but  it  was  not  the  less  a  sacred  book 
to  him,  for  the  breath  of  savage  nature  and  primitive  in- 
dividualities that  he  found  in  its  pages.  He  drew  in  its 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  141 

hymns  of  the  earth,  consumed  with  faith,  quivering  moun- 
tains, exultant  skies,  and  human  lions. 

One  of  the  characters  in  the  book  for  whom  he  had  an 
especial  tenderness  was  the  young  David.  He  did  not  give 
him  the  ironic  smile  of  the  Florentine  boy,  or  the  tragic  in- 
tensity of  the  sublime  works  of  Michael  Angelo  and  Verrochio : 
he  knew  them  not.  His  David  was  a  young  shepherd-poet,  with 
a  virgin  soul,  in  which  heroism  slumbered,  a  Siegfried  of  the 
South,  of  a  finer  race,  and  more  beautiful,  and  of  greater  har- 
mony in  mind  and  body. — For  his  revolt  against  the  Latin 
spirit  was  in  vain:  unconsciously  he  had  been  permeated  by 
that  spirit.  Not  only  art  influences  art,  not  only  mind  and 
'thought,  but  everything  about  the  artist : — people,  things, 
gestures,  movements,  lines,  the  light  of  each  town.  The  at- 
mosphere of  Paris  is  very  powerful:  it  molds  even  the  most 
rebellious  souls.  And  the  soul  of  a  German  is  less  capable  than 
any  other  of  resisting  it:  in  vain  does  he  gird  himself  in  his 
national  pride:  of  all  Europeans  the  German  is  the  most  easily 
denationalized.  Unwittingly  the  soul  of  Christophe  had  al- 
ready begun  to  assimilate  from  Latin  art  a  clarity,  a  sobriety,  an 
understanding  of  the  emotions,  and  even,  up  to  a  point,  a 
plastic  beauty,  which  otherwise  it  never  would  have  had.  His 
David  was  the  proof  of  it. 

He  had  endeavored  to  recreate  certain  episodes  of  the 
youth  of  David:  the  meeting  with  Saul,  the  fight  with  Goliath: 
and  he  had  written  the  first  scene.  He  had  conceived  it  as  a 
symphonic  picture  with  two  characters. 

On  a  deserted  plateau,  on  a  moor  covered  with  heather  in 
bloom,  the  young  shepherd  lay  dreaming  in  the  sun.  The  serene 
light,  the  hum  and  buzz  of  tiny  creatures,  the  sweet  whispering 
of  the  waving  grass,  the  silvery  tinkling  of  the  grazing  sheep, 
the  mighty  beat  and  rhythm  of  the  earth  sang  through  the 
dreaming  boy  unconscious  of  his  divine  destiny.  Drowsing,  his 
voice  and  the  notes  of  his  flute  joined  the  harmonious  silence: 
and  his  song  was  so  calmly,  so  limpidly  joyous,  that,  hearing 
it,  there  could  be  no  thought  of  joy  or  sorrow,  only  the  feeling 


142  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

that  it  must  be  so  and  could  not  be  otherwise. — Suddenly  over 
the  moor  reached  great  shadows:  the  air  was  still:  life  seemed 
to  withdraw  into  the  veins  of  the  earth.  Only  the  music  of 
the  flute  went  on  calmly.  Saul,  with  his  crazy  thoughts,  passed. 
The  mad  King,  racked  by  his  fancy,  burned  like  a  flame,  devour- 
ing itself,  fhrag  this  way  and  that  by  the  wind.  He  breathed 
prayers  and  violent  abuse,  hurling  defiance  at  the  void  about 
him,  the  void  within  himself.  And  when  he  could  speak  no 
more  and  fell  breathless  to  the  ground,  there  rang  through  the 
silence  the  smiling  peace  of  the  song  of  the  young  shepherd, 
who  had  never  ceased.  Then,  with  a  furious  beating  in  his 
heart,  came  Saul  in  silence  up  to  where  the  boy  lay  in  the 
heather:  in  silence  he  gazed  at  him:  he  sat  down  by  his  side 
and  placed  his  fevered  hand  on  the  cool  brows  of  the  shepherd. 
Untroubled,  David  turned,  and  smiled,  and  looked  at  the  King. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  Saul's  knees,  and  went  on  singing  and 
playing  his  flute.  Evening  came:  David  went  to  sleep  in  the 
middle  of  his  song,  and  Saul  wept.  And  through  the  starry 
night  there  rose  once  more  the  serene  joyous  hymn  of  nature 
refreshed,  the  song  of  thanksgiving  of  the  soul  relieved  of  its 
burden. 

When  he  wrote  the  scene,  Christophe  had  thought  of  nothing 
but  his  own  joy:  he  had  never  given  a  thought  to  the  manner 
of  its  performance :  and  it  had  certainly  never  occurred  to  him 
that  it  might  be  produced  on  the  stage.  He  meant  it  to  be  sung 
at  a  concert  at  such  time  as  the  concert-halls  should  be  open 
to  him. 

One  evening  he  spoke  of  it  to  Achille  Roussin,  and  when, 
by  request,  he  had  tried  to  give  him  an  idea  of  it  on  the  piano, 
he  was  amazed  to  see  Roussin  burst  into  enthusiasm,  and  declare 
that  it  must  at  all  costs  be  produced  at  one  of  the  theaters, 
and  that  he  would  see  to  it.  He  was  even  more  amazed  when, 
a  few  days  later,  he  saw  that  Roussin  was  perfectly  serious: 
and  his  amazement  grew  to  stupefaction  when  he  heard  that 
Sylvain  Kohn,  Goujart,  and  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  were  taking  it 
up.  He  had  to  admit  that  their  personal  animosity  had 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  143 

yielded  to  their  love  of  art:  and  he  was  much  surprised.  The 
only  man  who  was  not  eager  to  see  his  work  produced  was 
himself.  It  was  not  suited  to  the  theater:  it  was  nonsense, 
and  almost  hurtful  to  stage  it.  But  Koussin  was  so  insistent, 
Sylvain  Kohn  so  persuasive,  and  Goujart  so  positive,  that  Chris- 
tophe  yielded  to  the  temptation.  He  was  weak.  He  was  so 
longing  to  hear  his  music ! 

It  was  quite  easy  for  Eoussin.  Manager  and  artist  rushed  to 
please  him.  It  happened  that  a  newspaper  was  organizing  a 
benefit  matinee  for  some  charity.  It  was  arranged  that  the 
David  should  be  produced.  A  good  orchestra  was  got  together. 
As  for  the  singers,  Roussin  claimed  that  he  had  found  the 
ideal  representative  of  David. 

The  rehearsals  were  begun.  The  orchestra  came  through 
the  first  reading  fairly  well,  although,  as  usual  in  France,  there 
was  not  much  discipline  about  it.  Saul  had  a  good,  though 
rather  tired,  voice:  and  he  knew  his  business.  The  David  was 
a  handsome,  tall,  plump,  solid  lady  with  a  sentimental  vulgar 
voice  which  she  used  heavily,  with  a  melodramatic  tremolo  and 
all  the  cafe-concert  tricks.  Christophe  scowled.  As  soon  as 
she  began  to  sing  it  was  obvious  that  she  could  not  be  allowed 
to  play  the  part.  After  the  first  pause  in  the  rehearsal  he 
went  to  the  impresario,  who  had  charge  of  the  business  side  of 
the  undertaking,  and  was  present,  with  Sylvain  Kohn,  at  the 
rehearsal.  The  impresario  beamed  and  said : 

"  Well,  are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Christophe.  "  I  think  it  can  be  made  all  right. 
There's  only  one  thing  that  won't  do:  the  singer.  She 
must  be  changed.  Tell  her  as  gently  as  you  can:  you're 
used  to  it.  ...  It  will  be  quite  easy  for  you  to  find  me 
another." 

The  impresario  looked  disgruntled:  he  looked  at  Christophe 
as  though  he  could  not  believe  that  he  was  serious;  and  he 
said: 

"  But  that's  impossible !  " 

"  Why  is  it  impossible  ?  "  asked  Christophe. 


144  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

The  impresario  looked  cunningly  at  Sylvaia  Kohn,  and 
replied : 

"  But  she  has  so  much  talent !  " 

"  Not  a  spark,"  said  Christophe. 

"  What !  .    .    .     She  has  a  fine  voice !  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  And  she  is  beautiful." 

"I  don't  care  a  damn." 

"  That  won't  hurt  the  part,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn,  laughing. 

"  I  want  a  David,  a  David  who  can  sing :  I  don't  want  Helen 
of  Troy,"  said  Christophe. 

The  impresario  rubbed  his  nose  uneasily. 

"  It's  a  pity,  a  great  pity  .  .  . "  he  said.  "  She  is  an  ex- 
cellent artist.  ...  I  give  you  my  word  for  it !  Perhaps  she 
is  not  at  her  best  to-day.  You  must  give  her  another  trial." 

"  All  right,"  said  Christophe.     "  But  it  is  a  waste  of  time." 

He  went  on  with  the  rehearsal.  It  was  worse  than  ever. 
He  found  it  hard  to  go  on  to  the  end:  it  got  on  his  nerves: 
his  remarks  to  the  singer,  from  cold  and  polite,  became  dry 
and  cutting,  in  spite  of  the  obvious  pains  she  was  taking  to 
satisfy  him,  and  the  way  she  ogled  him  by  way  of  winning  his 
favor.  The  impresario  prudently  stopped  the  rehearsal  just 
when  it  seemed  to  be  hopeless.  By  way  of  softening  the  bad 
effect  of  Christophe's  remarks,  he  bustled  up  to  the  singer  and 
paid  her  heavy  compliments.  Christophe,  who  was  standing  by, 
made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  impatience,  called  the  impresario, 
and  said: 

"  There's  no  room  for  argument.  I  won't  have  the  woman. 
It's  unpleasant,  I  know:  but  I  did  not  choose  her.  Do  what 
you  can  to  arrange  the  matter." 

The  impresario  bowed  frigidly,  and  said  coldly: 

"  I  can't  do  anything.     You  must  see  M.  Roussin." 

"What  has  it  got  to  do  with  M.  Roussin?  I  don't  want 
to  bother  him  with  this  business,"  said  Christophe. 

"  That  won't  bother  him,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn  ironically. 

And  he  pointed  to  Roussin,  who  had  just  come  in. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  145 

Christophe  went  up  to  him.  Koussin  was  in  high  good 
humor,  and  cried: 

"  What !  Finished  already  ?  I  was  hoping  to  hear  a  bit  of  it. 
Well,  maestro,  what  do  you  say  ?  Are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  It's  going  quite  well,"  said  Christophe.  "  I  don't  know 
how  to  thank  you  ..." 

"  Not  at  all !     Not  at  all !  " 

"There  is  only  one  thing  wrong." 

"  What  is  it  ?  We'll  put  it  right.  I  am  determined  to  satisfy 
you." 

"Well  ...  the  singer.  Between  ourselves  she  is  de- 
testable." 

The  beaming  smile  on  Eoussin's  face  froze  suddenly.  He 
said,  with  some  asperity: 

"  You  surprise  me,  my  dear  fellow." 

"  She  is  useless,  absolutely  useless,"  Christophe  went  on.  "  She 
has  no  voice,  no  taste,  no  knowledge  of  her  work,  no  talent. 
You're  lucky  not  to  have  heard  her !  .  .  . " 

Roussin  grew  more  and  more  acid.  He  cut  Christophe 
short,  and  said  cuttingly: 

"  I  know  Mile,  de  Sainte-Ygraine.  She  is  a  very  talented 
artiste.  I  have  the  greatest  admiration  for  her.  Every  man  of 
taste  in  Paris  shares  my  opinion." 

And  he  turned  his  back  on  Christophe,  who  saw  him  offer 
his  arm  to  the  actress  and  go  out  with  her.  He  was  dum- 
founded,  and  Sylvain  Kohn,  who  had  watched  the  scene  de- 
lightedly, took  his  arm  and  laughed,  and  said  as  they  went  down 
the  stairs  of  the  theater : — 

"  Didn't  you  know  that  she  was  his  mistress  ?  " 

Christophe  understood.  So  it  was  for  her  sake  and  not  for 
his  own  that  his  piece  was  to  be  produced!  That  explained 
Roussin's  enthusiasm,  the  money  he  had  laid  out,  and  the 
eagerness  of  his  sycophants.  He  listened  while  Sylvain  Kohn 
told  him  the  story  of  the  Sainte-Ygraine:  a  music-hall  singer, 
who,  after  various  successes  in  the  little  vaudeville  theaters, 
had,  like  so  many  of  her  kind,  been  fired  with  the  ambition  to 


146  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

be  heard  on  a  stage  more  worthy  of  her  talent.  She  counted  on 
Roussin  to  procure  her  an  engagement  at  the  Opera  or  the 
Opera-Comique :  and  Roussin,  who  asked  nothing  better,  had 
seen  in  the  performance  of  David  an  opportunity  of  revealing 
to  the  Parisian  public  at  no  very  great  risk  the  lyrical  gifts 
of  the  new  tragedienne,  in  a  part  which  called  for  no  particular 
dramatic  acting,  and  gave  her  an  excellent  opportunity  of 
displaying  the  elegance  of  her  figure. 

Christophe  heard  the  story  through  to  the  end:  then  he 
shook  off  Sylvain  Kohn  and  burst  out  laughing.  He  laughed 
and  laughed.  When  he  had  done,  he  said: 

"  You  disgust  me.  You  all  disgust  me.  Art  is  nothing  to 
you.  It's  always  women,  nothing  but  women.  An  opera  is 
put  on  for  a  dancer,  or  a  singer,  for  the  mistress  of  M.  So- 
and-So,  or  Madame  Thingummy.  You  think  of  nothing  but 
your  dirty  little  intrigues.  Bless  you,  I'm  not  angry  with 
you:  you  are  like  that:  very  well  then,  be  so  and  wallow  in 
your  mire.  But  we  must  part  company:  we  weren't  made  to 
live  together.  Good-night." 

He  left  him,  and  when  he  reached  home,  wrote  to  Roussin, 
saying  that  he  withdrew  the  piece,  and  did  not  disguise  his  rea- 
sons for  doing  so. 

It  meant  a  breach  with  Roussin  and  all  his  gang.  The  con- 
sequences were  felt  at  once.  The  newspapers  had  made  a 
certain  amount  of  talk  about  the  forthcoming  piece,  and  the 
story  of  the  quarrel  between  the  composer  and  the  singer  ap- 
peared in  due  course.  A  certain  conductor  was  adventurous 
enough  to  play  the  piece  at  a  Sunday  afternoon  concert.  His 
good  fortune  was  disastrous  for  Christophe.  The  David  was 
played — and  hissed.  All  the  singer's  friends  had  passed  the 
word  to  teach  the  insolent  musician  a  lesson:  and  the  outside 
public,  who  had  been  bored  by  the  symphonic  poem,  added  their 
voices  to  the  verdict  of  the  critics.  To  crown  his  misfortunes, 
Christophe  was  ill-advised  enough  to  accept  the  invitation  to 
display  his  talents  as  a  pianist  at  the  same  concert  by  giving  a 
Fantasia  for  piano  and  orchestra.  The  unkindly  disposition 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  147 

of  the  audience,  which  had  been  to  a  certain  extent  restrained 
during  the  performance  of  the  David,  out  of  consideration  for 
the  interpreters,  broke  loose,  when  they  found  themselves  face 
to  face  with  the  composer, — whose  playing  was  not  all  that  it 
might  have  been.  Christophe  was  unnerved  by  the  noise  in 
the  hall,  and  stopped  suddenly  half-way  through  a  movement: 
and  he  looked  jeeringly  at  the  audience,  who  were  startled 
into  silence,  and  played  Malbrouck  s'en  va-t-en  guerre! — and 
said  insolently: 

"  That  is  all  you  are  fit  for." 

Then  he  got  up  and  went  away. 

There  was  a  terrific  row.  The  audience  shouted  that  he  had 
insulted  them,  and  that  he  must  come  and  apologize.  Next 
day  the  papers  unanimously  slaughtered  the  grotesque  German 
to  whom  justice  had  been  meted  out  by  the  good  taste  of 
Paris. 

And  then  once  more  he  was  left  in  absolute  isolation.  Once 
more  Christophe  found  himself  alone,  more  solitary  than  ever, 
in  that  great,  hostile,  stranger  city.  He  did  not  worry  about 
it.  He  began  to  think  that  he  was  fated  to  be  so,  and  would 
be  so  all  his  life. 

He  did  not  know  that  a  great  soul  is  never  alone,  that, 
however  Fortune  may  cheat  him  of  friendship,  in  the  end  a 
great  soul  creates  friends  by  the  radiance  of  the  love  with 
which  it  is  filled,  and  that  even  in  that  hour,  when  he  thought 
himself  for  ever  isolated,  he  was  more  rich  in  love  than  the 
happiest  men  and  women  in  the  world. 

Living  with  the  Stevens  was  a  little  girl  of  thirteen  or 
fourteen,  to  whom  Christophe  had  given  lessons  at  the  same 
time  as  Colette.  She  was  a  distant  cousin  of  Colette's,  and  her 
name  was  Grazia  Buontempi.  She  was  a  little  girl  with  a 
golden-brown  complexion,  with  cheeks  delicately  tinged  with 
red:  healthy-looking:  she  had  a  little  aquiline  nose,  a  large 
well-shaped  mouth,  always  half-open,  a  round  chin,  very  white, 
calm  clear  eyes,  softly  smiling,  a  round  forehead  framed  in. 


148  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

masses  of  long,  silky  hair,  which  fell  in  long,  waving  locks 
loosely  down  to  her  shoulders.  She  was  like  a  little  Virgin  of 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  with  her  wide  face  and  serenely  gazing  eyes. 

She  was  Italian.  Her  parents  lived  almost  all  the  year 
round  in  the  country  on  an  estate  in  the  North  of  Italy :  plains, 
fields,  little  canals.  From  the  loggia  on  the  housetop  they 
looked  down  on  golden  vines,  from  which  here  and  there  the 
black  spikes  of  the  cypress-trees  emerged.  Beyond  them  were 
fields,  and  again  fields.  Silence.  The  lowing  of  the  oxen  re- 
turning from  the  fields,  and  the  shrill  cries  of  the  peasants  at 
the  plow  were  to  be  heard : 

"Ihi/  ...     Fat  innanz'!  .    .    ." 

Grasshoppers  chirruped  in  the  trees,  frogs  croaked  by  the 
waterside.  And  at  night  there  was  infinite  silence  under  the 
silver  beams  of  the  moon.  In  the  distance,  from  time  to  time, 
the  watchers  by  the  crops,  sleeping  in  huts  of  branches,  fired 
their  guns  by  way  of  warning  thieves  that  they  were  awake. 
To  those  who  heard  them  drowsily,  these  noises  meant  no 
more  than  the  chiming  of  a  dull  clock  in  the  distance,  marking 
the  hours  of  the  night.  And  silence  closed  again,  like  a  soft 
cloak,  about  the  soul. 

Round  little  Grazia  life  seemed  asleep.  Her  people  did  not 
give  her  much  attention.  In  the  calmness  and  beauty  that  was 
all  about  her  she  grew  up  peacefully  without  haste,  without 
fever.  She  was  lazy,  and  loved  to  dawdle  and  to  sleep.  For 
hours  together  she  would  lie  in  the  garden.  She  would  let 
herself  be  borne  onward  by  the  silence  like  a  fly  on  a  summer 
stream.  And  sometimes,  suddenly,  for  no  reason,  she  would 
begin  to  run.  She  would  run  like  a  little  animal,  head  and 
shoulders  a  little  leaning  to  the  right,  moving  easily  and  supply. 
She  was  like  a  kid  climbing  and  slithering  among  the  stones 
for  the  sheer  joy  of  leaping  about.  She  would  talk  to  the 
dogs,  the  frogs,  the  grass,  the  trees,  the  peasants,  and  the  beasts 
in  the  farmyard.  She  adored  all  the  creatures  about  her,  great 
and  small:  but  she  was  less  at  her  ease  with  the  great.  She 
gaw  very  few  people.  The  estate  was  isolated  and  far  from 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  149 

any  town.  Very  rarely  there  came  along  the  dusty  road  some 
trudging,  solemn  peasant,  or  lovely  country  woman,  with  bright 
eyes  and  sunburnt  face,  walking  with  a  slow  rhythm,  head 
high  and  chest  well  out.  For  days  together  Grazia  lived  alone 
in  the  silence  of  the  garden:  she  saw  no  one:  she  was  never 
bored :  she  was  afraid  of  nothing. 

One  day  a  tramp  came,  stealing  fowls.  He  stopped  dead 
when  he  saw  the  little  girl  lying  on  the  grass,  eating  a  piece 
of  bread  and  butter  and  humming  to  herself.  She  looked  up 
at  him  calmly,  and  asked  him  what  he  wanted.  He  said : 

"  Give  me  something,  or  I'll  hurt  you." 

She  held  out  her  piece  of  bread  and  butter  and  smiled,  and 
said: 

"  You  must  not  do  harm." 

Then  he  went  away. 

Her  mother  died.  Her  father,  a  kind,  weak  man,  was  an 
old  Italian  of  a  good  family,  robust,  jovial,  affectionate,  but 
rather  childish,  and  he  was  quite  incapable  of  bringing  up  his 
child.  Old  Buontempi's  sister,  Madame  Stevens,  came  to  the 
funeral,  and  was  struck  by  the  loneliness  of  the  child,  and 
decided  to  take  her  back  to  Paris  for  a  while,  to  distract  her 
from  her  grief.  Grazia  and  her  father  wept :  but  when  Madame 
Stevens  had  made  up  her  mind  to  anything,  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  give  in :  nobody  could  stand  out  against  her.  She 
had  the  brains  of  the  family :  and,  in  her  house  in  Paris,  she 
directed  everything,  dominated  everybody:  her  husband,  her 
daughter,  her  lovers: — for  she  had  not  denied  herself  in  the 
matter  of  love:  she  went  straight  at  her  duties,  and  her  pleas- 
ures :  she  was  a  practical  woman  and  a  passionate — very  worldly 
and  very  restless. 

Transplanted  to  Paris,  Grazia  adored  her  pretty  cousin 
Colette,  whom  she  amused.  The  pretty  little  savage  was  taken 
out  into  society  and  to  the  theater.  They  treated  her  as  a 
child,  and  she  regarded  herself  as  a  child,  although  she  was  a 
child  no  longer.  She  had  feelings  which  she  hid  away,  for 
she  was  fearful  of  them:  accesses  of  tenderness  for  some  per- 


150  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

son  or  thing.  She  was  secretly  in  love  with  Colette,  and  would 
steal  a  ribbon  or  a  handkerchief  that  belonged  to  her:  often 
in  her  presence,  she  could  not  speak  a  word:  and  when  she 
expected  her,  when  she  knew  that  she  was  going  to  see  her, 
she  would  tremble  with  impatience  and  happiness.  At  the 
theater  when  she  saw  her  pretty  cousin,  in  evening  dress,  come 
into  the  box  and  attract  general  attention,  she  would  smile 
humbly,  affectionately,  lovingly :  and  her  heart  would  leap  when 
Colette  spoke  to  her.  Dressed  in  white,  with  her  beautiful 
black  hair  loose  and  hanging  over  her  shoulders,  biting  the 
fingers  of  her  long  white  cotton  gloves,  and  idly  poking  her 
fingers  through  the  holes, — every  other  minute  during  the  play 
she  would  turn  towards  Colette  in  the  hope  of  meeting  a  friendly 
look,  to  share  the  pleasure  she  was  feeling,  and  to  say  with  her 
clear  brown  eyes: 

"  I  love  you." 

When  they  were  out  together  in  the  Bois,  outside  Paris,  she 
would  walk  in  Colette's  shadow,  sit  at  her  feet;  run  in  front 
of  her,  break  off  branches  that  might  be  in  her  way,  place 
stones  in  the  mud  for  her  to  walk  on.  And  one  evening  in  the 
garden,  when  Colette  shivered  and  asked  for  her  shawl,  she 
gave  a  little  cry  of  delight — she  was  at  once  ashamed  of  it — 
to  think  that  her  beloved  would  be  wrapped  in  something  of 
hers,  and  would  give  it  back  to  her  presently  filled  with  the 
scent  of  her  body. 

There  were  books,  certain  passages  in  the  poets,  which  she 
read  in  secret — (for  she  was  still  given  children's  books)  — 
which  gave  her  delicious  thrills.  And  there  were  more  even 
in  certain  passages  in  music,  although  she  was  told  that  she 
could  not  understand  them :  and  she  persuaded  herself  that  she 
did  not  understand  them: — but  she  would  turn  pale  and  cold 
with  emotion.  No  one  knew  what  was  happening  within  her  at 
such  moments. 

Outside  that  she  was  just  a  docile  little  girl,  dreamy,  lazy, 
greedy,  blushing  on  the  slightest  provocation,  now  silent  for 
hours  together,  now  talking  volubly,  easily  touched  to  tears 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  151 

and  laughter,  breaking  suddenly  into  fits  of  sobbing  or  childish 
laughter.  She  loved  to  laugh,  and  silly  little  things  would 
amuse  her.  She  never  tried  to  be  grown  up.  She  remained  a 
child.  She  was,  above  all,  kind  and  could  not  bear  to  hurt  any- 
body, and  she  was  hurt  by  the  least  angry  word  addressed  to 
herself.  She  was  very  modest  and  retiring,  ready  to  love  and 
admire  anything  that  seemed  good  and  beautiful  to  her, 
and  so  she  attributed  to  others  qualities  which  they  did  not 
possess. 

She  was  being  educated,  for  she  was  very  backward. 
And  that  was  how  she  came  to  be  taught  music  by  Chris- 
tophe. 

She  saw  him  for  the  first  time  at  a  crowded  party  in  her 
aunt's  house.  Christophe,  who  was  incapable  of  adapting  him- 
self to  his  audience,  played  an  interminable  adagio  which  made 
everybody  yawn:  when  it  seemed  to  be  over  he  began  again: 
and  everybody  wondered  if  it  was  ever  going  to  end.  Madame 
Stevens  was  boiling  with  impatience:  Colette  was  highly 
amused :  she  was  enjoying  the  absurdity  of  it,  and  rather  pleased 
with  Christophe  for  being  so  insensible  of  it:  she  felt  that  he 
was  a  force,  and  she  liked  that:  but  it  was  comic  too:  and  she 
would  have  been  the  last  person  to  defend  him.  Grazia  alone 
was  moved  to  tears  by  the  music.  She  hid  herself  away  in  a 
corner  of  the  room.  When  it  was  over  she  went  away,  so  that 
no  one  should  see  her  emotion,  and  also  because  she  could  not 
bear  to  see  people  making  fun  of  Christophe. 

A  few  days  later,  at  dinner,  Madame  Stevens  in  her  pres- 
ence spoke  of  her  having  music-lessons  from  Christophe.  Grazia 
was  so  upset  that  she  let  her  spoon  drop  into  her  soup-plate, 
and  splashed  herself  and  her  neighbor.  Colette  said  she  ought 
first  to  have  lessons  in  table-manners.  Madame  Stevens  added 
that  Christophe  was  not  the  person  to  go  to  for  that.  Grazia 
was  glad  to  be  scolded  in  Christophe's  company. 

Christophe  began  to  teach  her.  She  was  stiff  and  frozen, 
and  held  her  arms  close  to  her  sides,  and  could  not  stir:  and 
when  Christophe  placed  his  hand  on  hers,  to  correct  the 


152  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

position  of  her  fingers,  and  stretched  them  over  the  keys,  she 
nearly  fainted.  She  was  fearful  of  playing  badly  for  him: 
but  in  vain  did  she  practise  until  she  nearly  made  herself  ill, 
and  evoked  impatient  protests  from  her  cousin:  she  always 
played  vilely  when  Christophe  was  present:  she  was  breath- 
less, and  her  fingers  were  as  stiff  as  pieces  of  wood,  or  as  flabby 
as  cotton:  she  struck  the  wrong  notes  and  gave  the  emphasis 
all  wrong:  Christophe  would  lose  his  temper,  scold  her,  and 
go  away:  then  she  would  long  to  die. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  her,  and  thought  only  of  Colette. 
Grazia  was  envious  of  her  cousin's  intimacy  with  Christophe: 
but,  although  it  hurt  her,  in  her  heart  she  was  glad  both  for 
Colette  and  for  Christophe.  She  thought  Colette  so  superior  to 
herself  that  it  seemed  natural  to  her  that  she  should  monopolize 
attention. — It  was  only  when  she  had  to  choose  between  her 
cousin  and  Christophe  that  she  felt  her  heart  turn  against 
Colette.  With  her  girlish  intuition  she  saw  that  Christophe 
was  made  to  suffer  by  Colette's  coquetry,  and  the  persistent 
courtship  of  her  by  Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  Instinctively  she  dis- 
liked Levy-Cceur,  and  she  detested  him  as  soon  as  she  knew 
that  Christophe  detested  him.  She  could  not  understand  how 
Colette  could  admit  him  as  a  rival  to  Christophe.  She  began 
secretly  to  judge  him  harshly.  She  discovered  certain  of  his 
small  hypocrisies,  and  suddenly  changed  her  manner  towards 
him.  Colette  saw  it,  but  did  not  guess  the  cause :  she  pretended 
to  ascribe  it  to  a  little  girl's  caprice.  But  it  was  very  certain 
that  she  had  lost  her  power  over  Grazia:  as  was  shown  by  a 
trifling  incident.  One  evening,  when  they  were  walking  to- 
gether in  the  garden,  a  gentle  rain  came  on,  and  Colette, 
tenderly,  though  coquettishly,  offered  Grazia  the  shelter  of  her 
cloak :  Grazia,  for  whom,  a  few  weeks  before,  it  would  have  been 
happiness  ineffable  to  be  held  close  to  her  beloved  cousin, 
moved  away  coldly,  and  walked  on  in  silence  at  a  distance  of 
some  yards.  And  when  Colette  said  that  she  thought  a  piece 
of  music  that  Grazia  was  playing  was  ugly,  Grazia  was  not 
kept  from  playing  and  loving  it. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  153 

She  was  only  concerned  with  Christophe.  She  had  the  in- 
sight of  her  tenderness,  and  saw  that  he  was  suffering,  with- 
out his  saying  a  word.  She  exaggerated  it  in  her  childish,  un- 
easy regard  for  him.  She  thought  that  Christophe  was  in  love 
with  Colette,  when  he  had  really  no  more  than  an  exacting 
friendship.  She  thought  he  was  unhappy,  and  she  was  un- 
happy for  him,  and  she  had  little  reward  for  her  anxiety.  She 
paid  for  it  when  Colette  had  infuriated  Christophe :  then  he 
was  surly  and  avenged  himself  on  his  pupil,  waxing  wrathful 
with  her  mistakes.  One  morning  when  Colette  had  exasperated 
him  more  than  usual,  he  sat  down  by  the  piano  so  savagely  that 
Grazia  lost  the  little  nerve  she  had:  she  floundered:  he  angrily 
scolded  her  for  her  mistakes :  then  she  lost  her  head  altogether : 
he  fumed,  wrung  his  hands,  declared  that  she  would  never  do 
anything  properly,  and  that  she  had  better  occupy  herself  with 
cooking,  sewing,  anything  she  liked,  only,  in  Heaven's  name, 
she  must  not  go  on  with  her  music!  It  was  not  worth  the 
trouble  of  torturing  people  with  her  mistakes.  With  that  he 
left  her  in  the  middle  of  her  lesson.  He  was  furious.  And 
poor  Grazia  wept,  not  so  much  for  the  humiliation  of  anything 
he  had  said  to  her,  as  for  despair  at  not  being  able  to  please 
Christophe,  when  she  longed  to  do  so,  and  could  only  succeed 
in  adding  to  his  sufferings.  The  greatest  grief  was  when  Chris- 
tophe ceased  to  go  to  the  Stevens'  house.  Then  she  longed  to 
go  home.  The  poor  child,  so  healthy,  even  in  her  dreams,  in 
whom  there  was  much  of  the  sweet  peace  of  the  country,  felt 
ill  at  ease  in  the  town,  among  the  neurasthenic,  restless  women 
of  Paris.  She  never  dared  say  anything,  but  she  had  come  to 
a  fairly  accurate  estimation  of  the  people  about  her.  But  she 
was  shy,  and,  like  her  father,  weak,  from  kindness,  modesty, 
distrust  of  herself.  She  submitted  to  the  authority  of  her 
domineering  aunt  and  her  cousin,  who  was  used  to  tyrannizing 
over  everybody.  She  dared  not  write  to  her  father,  to  whom 
she  wrote  regularly  long,  affectionate  letters: 

"  Please,  please,  take  me  home !  " 

And  her  father  dared  not  take  her  home,  in  spite  of  his 


154  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

own  longing:  for  Madame  Stevens  had  answered  his  timid 
advances  by  saying  that  Grazia  was  very  well  off  where  she 
was,  much  better  off  than  she  would  be  with  him,  and  that  she 
must  stay  for  the  sake  of  her  education. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  her  exile  was  too  hard  for  the 
little  southern  creature,  a  time  when  she  had  to  fly  back  towards 
the  light. — That  was  after  Christophe's  concert.  She  went  to 
it  with  the  Stevens:  and  she  was  tortured  by  the  hideous  sight 
of  the  rabble  amusing  themselves  with  insulting  an  artist.  .  .  . 
An  artist  ?  The  man  who,  in  Grazia's  eyes,  was  the  very  type  of 
art,  the  personification  of  all  that  was  divine  in  life!  She 
was  on  the  point  of  tears;  she  longed  to  get  away.  She  had 
to  listen  to  all  the  caterwauling,  the  hisses,  the  howls,  and,  when 
they  reached  home,  to  the  laughter  of  Colette  as  she  exchanged 
pitying  remarks  with  Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  She  escaped  to  her 
room,  and  through  part  of  the  night  she  sobbed:  she  spoke  to 
Christophe,  and  consoled  him :  she  would  gladly  have  given  her 
life  for  him,  and  she  despaired  of  ever  being  able  to  do  any- 
thing to  make  him  happy.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  stay  in 
Paris  any  longer.  She  begged  her  father  to  take  her  away, 
saying : 

"  I  cannot  live  here  any  longer ;  I  cannot :  I  shall  die  if  you 
leave  me  here  any  longer." 

Her  father  came  at  once,  and  though  it  was  very  painful  to 
them  both  to  stand  up  to  her  terrible  aunt,  they  screwed  up  their 
courage  for  it  by  a  desperate  effort  of  will. 

Grazia  returned  to  the  sleepy  old  estate.  She  was  glad  to 
get  back  to  Nature  and  the  creatures  that  she  loved.  Every 
day  she  gathered  comfort  for  her  sorrow,  but  in  her  heart  there 
remained  a  little  of  the  melancholy  of  the  North,  like  a  veil 
of  mist,  that  very  slowly  melted  away  before  the  sun.  Some- 
times she  thought  of  Christophe's  wretchedness.  Lying  on  the 
grass,  listening  to  the  familiar  frogs  and  grasshoppers,  or  sitting 
at  her  piano,  which  now  she  played  more  often  than  before, 
she  would  dream  of  the  friend  her  heart  had  chosen :  she  would 
talk  to  him,  in  whispers,  for  hours  together,  and  it  seemed 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  155 

not  impossible  to  her  that  one  day  he  would  open  the  door 
and  come  in  to  her.  She  wrote  to  him,  and,  after  long  hesita- 
tion, she  sent  the  letter,  unsigned,  which,  one  day,  with  beating 
heart,  she  went  secretly  and  dropped  into  the  box  in  the  village 
two  miles  away,  beyond  the  long  plowed  fields, — a  kind,  good, 
touching  letter,  in  which  she  told  him  that  he  was  not  alone, 
that  he  must  not  be  discouraged,  that  there  was  one  who  thought 
of  him,  and  loved  him,  and  prayed  to  God  for  him, — a  poor 
little  letter,  which  was  lost  in  the  post,  so  that  he  never  re- 
ceived it. 

Then  the  serene,  monotonous  days  succeeded  each  other  in  the 
life  of  his  distant  friend.  And  the  Italian  peace,  the  genius  of 
tranquillity,  calm  happiness,  silent  contemplation,  once  more 
took  possession  of  that  chaste  and  silent  heart,  in  whose  depths 
there  still  burned,  like  a  little  constant  flame,  the  memory  of 
Christophe. 

But  Christophe  never  knew  of  the  simple  love  that  watched 
over  him  from  afar,  and  was  later  to  fill  so  great  a  room  in  his 
life.  Nor  did  he  know  that  at  that  same  concert,  where  he 
had  been  insulted,  there  sat  the  woman  who  was  to  be  the 
beloved,  the  dear  companion,  destined  to  walk  by  his  side, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  hand  in  hand. 

He  was  alone.  He  thought  himself  alone.  But  he  did  not 
suffer  overmuch.  He  did  not  feel  that  bitter  anguish  that  had 
given  him  such  great  agony  in  Germany.  He  was  stronger, 
riper:  he  knew  that  it  must  be  so.  His  illusions  about  Paris 
were  destroyed:  men  were  everywhere  the  same:  he  must  be  a 
law  unto  himself,  and  not  waste  strength  in  a  childish  struggle 
with  the  world :  he  must  be  himself,  calmly,  tranquilly.  As 
Beethoven  had  said,  "  If  we  surrender  the  forces  of  our  lives  to 
life,  what,  then,  will  be  left  for  the  noblest  and  highest  ?  "  He 
had  firmly  grasped  a  knowledge  of  his  nature  and  the  temper 
of  his  race,  which  formerly  he  had  so  harshly  judged.  The 
more  he  was  oppressed  by  the  atmosphere  of  Paris,  the  more 
keenly  did  he  feel  the  need  of  taking  refuge  in  his  own  coun- 


156  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

try,  in  the  arms  of  the  poets  and  musicians,  in  whom  the  best 
of  Germany  is  garnered  and  preserved.  As  soon  as  he  opened 
their  books  his  room  was  filled  with  the  sound  of  the  sunlit 
Rhine  and  lit  by  the  loving  smiles  of  old  friends  new  found. 

How  ungrateful  he  had  been  to  them!  How  was  it  he  had 
failed  to  feel  the  treasure  of  their  goodness  and  honesty?  He 
remembered  with  shame  all  the  unjust,  outrageous  things  he 
had  said  of  them  when  he  was  in  Germany.  Then  he  saw 
only  their  defects,  their  awkward  ceremonious  manners,  their 
tearful  idealism,  their  little  mental  hypocrisies,  their 
cowardice.  Ah !  How  small  were  all  these  things  compared 
with  their  great  virtues !  How  could  he  have  been  so  hard 
upon  their  weaknesses,  which  now  made  them  even  more  mov- 
ing in  his  eyes:  for  they  were  more  human  for  them!  In  his 
reaction  he  was  the  more  attracted  to  those  of  them  to  whom  he 
had  been  most  unjust.  What  things  he  had  said  about  Schubert 
and  Bach !  And  now  he  felt  so  near  to  them.  Now  it  was 
as  though  these  noble  souls,  whose  foibles  he  had  so  scorned, 
leaned  over  him,  now  that  he  was  in  exile  and  far  from  his 
own  people,  and  smiled  kindly  and  said: 

"Brother,  we  are  here!  Courage!  We  too  have  had  more 
than  our  share  of  misery.  .  .  .  Bah!  one  wins  through 
it.  .  .  ." 

He  heard  the  soul  of  Johann  Sebastian  Bach  roaring  like 
the  sea:  hurricanes,  winds  howling,  the  clouds  of  life  scudding, 
— men  and  women  drunk  with  joy,  sorrow,  fury,  and  the 
Christ,  all  meekness,  the  Prince  of  Peace,  hovering  above 
them, — towns  awakened  by  the  cries  of  the  watchmen,  run- 
ning with  glad  shouts,  to  meet  the  divine  Bridegroom,  whose 
footsteps  shake  the  earth, — the  vast  store  of  thoughts,  passions, 
musical  forms,  heroic  life,  Shakespearean  hallucinations, 
Savonarolaesque  prophecies,  pastoral,  epic,  apocalyptic  visions, 
all  contained  in  the  stunted  body  of  the  little  Thuringian  cantor, 
with  his  double  chin,  and  little  shining  eyes  under  the  wrinkled 
lids  and  the  raised  eyebrows  .  .  . — he  could  see  him  so  clearly! 
gomber;  jovial,  a  little  absurd,  with  his  head  stuffed  full  of 


THE  MAKKET-PLACE  157 

allegories  and  symbols,  Gothic  and  rococo,  choleric,  obstinate, 
serene,  with  a  passion  for  life,  and  a  great  longing  for  death 
.  .  . — he  saw  him  in  his  school,  a  genial  pedant,  surrounded 
by  his  pupils,  dirty,  coarse,  vagabond,  ragged,  with  hoarse 
voices,  the  ragamuffins  with  whom  he  squabbled,  and  some- 
times fought  like  a  navvy,  one  of  whom  once  gave  him  a  mighty 
thrashing  .  .  . — he  saw  him  with  his  family,  surrounded  by 
his  twenty-one  children,  of  whom  thirteen  died  before  him,  and 
one  was  an  idiot,  and  the  rest  were  good  musicians  who  gave 
little  concerts.  .  .  .  Sickness,  burial,  bitter  disputes,  want, 
his  genius  misunderstood: — and  through  and  above  it  all,  his 
music,  his  faith,  deliverance  and  light,  joy  half  seen,  felt,  desired, 
grasped, — God,  the  breath  of  God  kindling  his  bones,  thrilling 
through  his  flesh,  thundering  from  his  lips.  ...  0  Force! 
Force !  Thrice  joyful  thunder  of  Force !  .  .  . 

Christophe  took  great  draughts  of  that  force.  He  felt  the 
blessing  of  that  power  of  music  which  issues  from  the  depths 
of  the  German  soul.  Often  mediocre,  and  even  coarse,  what 
does  it  matter?  The  great  thing  is  that  it  is  so,  and  that  it 
flows  plenteously.  In  France  music  is  gathered  carefully,  drop 
by  drop,  and  passed  through  Pasteur  filters  into  bottles,  and 
then  corked.  And  the  drinkers  of  stale  water  are  disgusted  by 
the  rivers  of  German  music!  They  examine  minutely  the  de- 
fects of  the  German  men  of  genius! 

"  Poor  little  things !  " — thought  Christophe,  forgetting  that 
he  himself  had  once  been  just  as  absurd — "  they  find  fault  with 
Wagner  and  Beethoven!  They  must  have  faultless  men  of 
genius!  ...  As  though,  when  the  tempest  rages,  it  would 
take  care  not  to  upset  the  existing  order  of  things!  ..." 

He  strode  about  Paris  rejoicing  in  his  strength.  If  he  were 
misunderstood,  so  much  the  better!  He  would  be  all  the 
freer.  To  create,  as  genius  must,  a  whole  world,  organically 
constituted  according  to  his  own  inward  laws,  the  artist  must 
live  in  it  altogether.  An  artist  can  never  be  too  much  alone. 
What  is  terrible  is  to  see  his  ideas  reflected  in  a  mirror  which 
deforms  and  stunts  them.  He  must  say  nothing  to  others  of 


158  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

what  he  is  doing  until  he  has  done  it :  otherwise  he  would  never 
have  the  courage  to  go  on  to  the  end :  for  it  would  no  longer  be 
his  idea,  but  the  miserable  idea  of  others  that  would  live  in  him. 

Now  that  there  was  nothing  to  disturb  his  dreams,  they 
bubbled  forth  like  springs  from  all  the  corners  of  his  soul, 
and  from  every  stone  of  the  roads  by  which  he  walked.  He 
was  living  in  a  visionary  state.  Everything  he  saw  and  heard 
called  forth  in  him  creatures  and  things  different  from  those 
he  saw  and  heard.  He  had  only  to  live  to  find  everywhere  about 
him  the  life  of  his  heroes.  Their  sensations  came  to  him  of 
their  own  accord.  The  eyes  of  the  passers-by,  the  sound  of  a 
voice  borne  by  the  wind,  the  light  on  a  lawn,  the  birds  singing 
in  the  trees  of  the  Luxembourg,  a  convent-bell  ringing  so  far 
away,  the  pale  sky,  the  little  patch  of  sky  seen  from  his  room, 
the  sounds  and  shades  of  sound  of  the  different  hours  of  the 
day,  all  these  were  not  in  himself,  but  in  the  creatures  of  his 
dreams. — Christophe  was  happy. 

But  his  material  position  was  worse  than  ever.  He  had  lost 
his  few  pupils,  his  only  resource.  It  was  September,  and  rich 
people  were  out  of  town,  and  it  was  difficult  to  find  new  pupils. 
The  only  one  he  had  was  an  engineer,  a  crazy,  clever  fellow, 
who  had  taken  it  into  his  head,  at  forty,  to  become  a  great 
violinist.  Christophe  did  not  play  the  violin  very  well:  but 
he  knew  more  about  it  than  his  pupil :  and  for  some  time  he 
gave  him  three  hours  a  week  at  two  francs  an  hour.  But  at 
the  end  of  six  weeks  the  engineer  got  tired  of  it,  and  sud- 
denly discovered  that  painting  was  his  vocation. — When  he  im- 
parted his  discovery  to  Christophe,  Christophe  laughed  heartily : 
but,  when  he  had  done  laughing,  he  reckoned  up  his  finances, 
and  found  that  he  had  in  hand  the  twelve  francs  which  his 
pupil  had  just  paid  him  for  his  last  lessons.  That  did  not 
worry  him:  he  only  said  to  himself  that  he  must  certainly  set 
about  finding  some  other  means  of  living,  and  start  once  more 
going  from  publisher  to  publisher.  That  was  not  very  pleasant. 
.  .  .  Pff!  ...  It  was  useless  to  torment  himself  in  ad- 
vance. It  was  a  jolly  day.  He  went  to  Meudon. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  159 

He  had  a  sudden  longing  for  a  walk.  As  he  walked  there 
rose  in  him  scraps  of  music.  He  was  as  full  of  it  as  a  hive 
of  honey:  and  he  laughed  aloud  at  the  golden  buzzing  of  his 
bees.  For  the  most  part  it  was  changing  music.  And  lively 
leaping  rhythms,  insistent,  haunting.  .  .  .  Much  good  it  is 
to  create  and  fashion  music  buried  within  four  walls!  There 
you  can  only  make  combinations  of  subtle,  hard,  unyielding 
harmonies,  like  the  Parisians ! 

When  he  was  weary  he  lay  down  in  the  woods.  The  trees 
were  half  in  leaf,  the  sky  was  periwinkle  blue.  Christophe 
dozed  off  dreamily,  and  in  his  dreams  there  was  the  color  of 
the  sweet  light  falling  from  October  clouds.  His  blood  throbbed. 
He  listened  to  the  rushing  flood  of  his  ideas.  They  came  from 
all  corners  of  the  earth:  worlds,  young  and  old,  at  war,  rags 
and  tatters  of  dead  souls,  guests  and  parasites  that  once  had 
dwelled  within  him,  as  in  a  city.  The  words  that  Gottfried 
had  spoken  by  the  grave  of  Melchior  returned  to  him:  he  was 
a  living  tomb,  filled  with  the  dead,  striving  in  him, — all  his  un- 
known forefathers.  He  listened  to  those  countless  lives,  it 
delighted  him  to  set  the  organ  roaring,  the  roaring  of  that 
age-old  forest,  full  of  monsters,  like  the  forest  of  Dante.  He 
was  no  longer  fearful  of  them  as  he  had  been  in  his  youth. 
For  the  master  was  there :  his  will.  It  was  a  great  joy  to  him 
to  crack  his  whip  and  make  the  beasts  howl,  and  feel  the 
wealth  of  living  creatures  in  himself.  He  was  not  alone.  There 
was  no  danger  of  his  ever  being  alone.  He  was  a  host  in  him- 
self. Ages  of  Kraffts,  healthy  and  rejoicing  in  their  health. 
Against  hostile  Paris,  against  a  hostile  people,  he  could  set  a 
whole  people :  the  fight  was  equal. 

He  had  left  the  modest  room — it  was  too  expensive — which 
he  occupied  and  taken  an  attic  in  the  Montrouge  district.  It 
was  well  aired,  though  it  had  no  other  advantage.  There  was 
a  continual  draught.  But  he  wanted  to  breathe.  From  his 
window  he  had  a  wide  view  over  the  chimneys  of  Paris  to  Mont- 
martre  in  the  background.  It  had  not  taken  him  long  to  move : 


160  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

a  handcart  was  enough:  Christophe  pushed  it  himself.  Of  all 
his  possessions  the  most  precious  to  him,  after  his  old  bag, 
was  one  of  those  casts,  which  have  lately  become  so  popular, 
of  the  death-mask  of  Beethoven.  He  packed  it  with  as  much 
care  as  though  it  were  a  priceless  work  of  art.  He  never  let 
it  out  of  his  sight.  It  was  an  oasis  in  the  midst  of  the  desert 
of  Paris.  And  also  it  served  him  as  a  moral  thermometer. 
The  death-mask  indicated  more  clearly  than  his  own  conscience 
the  temperature  of  his  soul,  the  character  of  his  most  secret 
thoughts :  now  a  cloudy  sky,  now  the  gusty  wind  of  the  passions, 
now  fine  calm  weather. 

He  had  to  be  sparing  with  his  food.  He  only  ate  once  a 
day,  at  one  in  the  afternoon.  He  bought  a  large  sausage,  and 
hung  it  up  in  his  window :  a  thick  slice  of  it,  a  hunk  of  bread, 
and  a  cup  of  coffee  that  he  made  himself  were  a  feast  for  the 
gods.  He  would  have  preferred  two  such  feasts.  He  was  angry 
with  himself  for  having  such  a  good  appetite.  He  called  him- 
self to  task,  and  thought  himself  a  glutton,  thinking  only  of  his 
stomach.  He  lost  flesh:  he  was  leaner  than  a  famished  dog. 
But  he  was  solidly  built,  he  had  an  iron  constitution,  and  his 
head  was  clear. 

He  did  not  worry  about  the  morrow,  though  he  had  good  rea- 
son for  doing  so.  As  long  as  he  had  in  hand  money  enough 
for  the  day  he  never  bothered  about  it.  When  he  came  to  the 
end  of  his  money  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  the  round  of  the 
publishers  once  more.  He  found  no  work.  He  was  on  his  way 
home,  empty,  when,  happening  to  pass  the  music-shop  where  he 
had  been  introduced  to  Daniel  Hecht  by  Sylvain  Kohn,  he  went 
in  without  remembering  that  he  had  already  been  there  under 
not  very  pleasant  circumstances.  The  first  person  he  saw  was 
Hecht.  He  was  on  the  point  of  turning  tail:  but  he  was  too 
late :  Hecht  had  seen  him.  Christophe  did  not  wish  to  seem  to 
be  avoiding  him:  he  went  up  to  Hecht,  not  knowing  what  to 
say  to  him,  and  fully  prepared  to  stand  up  to  him  as  ar- 
rogantly as  need  be:  for  he  was  convinced  that  Hecht  would  be 
unsparingly  insolent.  But  he  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  Hecht 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  161 

coldly  held  out  his  hand,  muttered  some  conventional  inquiry 
after  his  health,  and,  without  waiting  for  any  request  from 
Christophe,  he  pointed  to  the  door  of  his  office,  and  stepped 
aside  to  let  him  pass.  He  was  secretly  glad  of  the  visit, 
which  he  had  foreseen,  though  he  had  given  up  expecting  it. 
Without  seeming  to  do  so,  he  had  carefully  followed  Chris- 
tophe's  doings:  he  had  missed  no  opportunity  of  hearing  his 
music:  he  had  been  at  the  famous  performance  of  the  David: 
and,  despising  the  public,  he  had  not  been  greatly  surprised 
at  its  hostile  reception,  since  he  himself  had  felt  the  beauty  of 
the  work.  There  were  probably  not  two  people  in  Paris  more 
capable  than  Hecht  of  appreciating  Christophe's  artistic  origi- 
nality. But  he  took  care  not  to  say  anything  about  it,  not  only 
because  his  vanity  was  hurt  by  Christophe's  attitude  towards 
himself,  but  because  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  be  amiable: 
it  was  the  peculiarly  ungracious  quality  of  his  nature.  He  was 
sincerely  desirous  of  helping  Christophe:  but  he  would  not 
have  stirred  a  finger  to  do  so :  he  was  waiting  for  Christophe  to 
come  and  ask  it  of  him.  And  now  that  Christophe  had  come, — 
instead  of  generously  seizing  the  opportunity  of  wiping  out  the 
memory  of  their  previous  misunderstanding  by  sparing  his 
visitor  any  humiliation,  he  gave  himself  the  satisfaction  of 
hearing  him  make  his  request  at  length:  and  he  even  went  so 
far  as  to  offer  Christophe,  at  least  for  the  time  being,  the 
work  which  he  had  formerly  refused.  He  gave  him  fifty  pages 
of  music  to  transpose  for  mandoline  and  guitar  by  the  next 
day.  After  which,  being  satisfied  that  he  had  made  him  truckle 
down,  he  found  him  less  distasteful  work,  but  always  so  un- 
graciously that  it  was  impossible  to  be  grateful  to  him  for  it: 
Christophe  had  to  be  ground  down  by  necessity  before  he  would 
ever  go  to  Hecht  again.  In  any  case  he  preferred  to  earn  his 
money  by  such  work,  however  irritating  it  might  be,  than  ac- 
cept it  as  a  gift  from  Hecht,  as  it  was  once  more  offered  to 
him : — and,  indeed,  Hecht  meant  it  kindly :  but  Christophe  had 
been  conscious  of  Hecht's  original  intention  to  humiliate  him: 
he  was  forceci  to  accept  his  conditions,  but  nothing  woulci  in- 


162  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

duce  him  to  accept  any  favor  from  him:  he  was  willing  to 
work  for  him: — by  giving  and  giving  he  squared  the  account: 
— but  he  would  not  be  under  any  obligation  to  him.  Unlike 
Wagner,  that  impudent  mendicant  where  his  art  was  concerned, 
he  did  not  place  his  art  above  himself:  the  bread  that  he  had 
not  earned  himself  would  have  choked  him. — One  day,  when  he 
brought  some  work  that  he  had  sat  up  all  night  to  finish,  he 
found  Hecht  at  table.  Hecht,  remarking  his  pallor  and  the 
hungry  glances  that  involuntarily  he  cast  at  the  dishes,  felt 
sure  that  he  had  not  eaten  that  day,  and  invited  him  to  lunch. 
He  meant  kindly,  but  he  made  it  so  apparent  that  he  had 
noticed  Christophe's  straits  that  his  invitation  looked  like  char- 
ity: Christophe  would  have  died  of  hunger  rather  than  accept. 
He  could  not  refuse  to  sit  down  at  the  table — (Hecht  said  he 
wanted  to  talk  to  him)  : — but  he  did  not  touch  a  morsel :  he  pre- 
tended that  he  had  just  had  lunch.  His  stomach  was  aching 
with  hunger. 

Christophe  would  gladly  have  done  without  Hecht:  but 
the  other  publishers  were  even  worse. — There  were  also  wealthy 
amateurs  who  had  conceived  some  scrap  of  a  musical  idea, 
and  could  not  even  write  it  down.  They  would  send  for  Chris- 
tophe, hum  over  their  lucubrations,  and  say: 

"Isn't  it  fine?" 

Then  they  would  give  them  to  him  for  elaboration, —  (to  be 
written)  : — and  then  they  would  appear  under  their  own  names 
through  some  great  publishing  house.  They  were  quite  con- 
vinced that  they  had  composed  them  themselves.  Christophe 
knew  such  a  one,  a  distinguished  nobleman,  a  strange,  restless 
creature,  who  would  suddenly  call  him  "  Dear  friend,"  grasp 
him  by  the  arm,  and  burst  into  a  torrent  of  enthusiastic  demon- 
strations, talking  and  giggling,  babbling  and  telling  funny 
stories,  interlarded  with  cries  of  ecstatic  laughter:  Beethoven, 
Verlaine,  Faure,  Yvette  Guilbert.  ...  He  made  him  work, 
and  failed  to  pay.  He  worked  it  out  in  invitations  to  lunch  and 
handshakes.  Finally  he  sent  Christophe  twenty  francs,  which 
Christophe  gave  himself  the  foolish  luxury  of  returning.  That 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  163 

day  he  had  not  twenty  sous  in  the  world :  and  he  had  to  buy  a 
twenty-five  centimes  stamp  for  a  letter  to  his  mother.  It  was 
Louisa's  birthday,  and  Christophe  would  not  for  the  world  have 
failed  her:  the  poor  old  creature  counted  on  her  son's  letter, 
and  could  not  have  endured  disappointment.  For  some  weeks 
past  she  had  been  writing  to  him  more  frequently,  in  spite  of 
the  pain  it  caused  her.  She  was  suffering  from  her  loneli- 
ness. But  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  join  Christophe  in 
Paris:  she  was  too  timid,  too  much  attached  to  her  own  little 
town,  to  her  church,  her  house,  and  she  was  afraid  of  traveling. 
And  besides,  if  she  had  wanted  to  come,  Christophe  had  not 
enough  money :  he  had  not  always  enough  for  himself. 

He  had  been  given  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  once  by  receiv- 
ing a  letter  from  Lorchen,  the  peasant  girl  for  whose  sake  he 
had  plunged  into  the  brawl  with  the  Prussian  soldiers : 1  she 
wrote  to  tell  him  that  she  was  going  to  be  married:  she  gave 
him  news  of  his  mother,  and  sent  him  a  basket  of  apples  and 
a  piece  of  cake  to  eat  in  her  honor.  They  came  in  the  nick  of 
time.  That  evening  with  (Christophe  was  a  fast,  Ember  Days, 
Lent:  only  the  butt  end  of  the  sausage  hanging  by  the  window 
was  left.  Christophe  compared  himself  to  the  anchorite  saints 
fed  by  a  crow  among  the  rocks.  But  no  doubt  the  crow  was 
hard  put  to  it  to  feed  all  the  anchorites,  for  he  never  came 
again. 

In  spite  of  all  his  difficulties  Christophe  kept  his  end  up. 
He  washed  his  linen  in  his  basin,  and  cleaned  his  boots, 
whistling  like  a  blackbird.  He  consoled  himself  with  the  say- 
ing of  Berlioz :  "  Let  us  raise  our  heads  above  the  miseries  of 
life,  and  let  us  blithely  sing  the  familiar  gay  refrain,  Dies  irce. 
.  .  ." — He  used  to  sing  it  sometimes,  to  the  dismay  of  his 
neighbors,  who  were  amazed  and  shocked  to  hear  him  break 
off  in  the  middle  and  shout  with  laughter. 

He  led  a  life  of  stern  chastity.  As  Berlioz  remarked :  "  The 
lover's  life  is  a  life  for  the  idle  and  the  rich."  Christophe's 
poverty,  his  daily  hunt  for  bread,  his  excessive  sobriety,  and 
1  See  Jean- (Christophe — I,  "  Revolt." 


164  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

his  creative  fever  left  him  neither  the  time  nor  the  taste  for 
any  thought  of  pleasure.  He  was  more  than  indifferent  about 
it:  in  his  reaction  against  Paris  he  had  plunged  into  a  sort  of 
moral  asceticism.  He  had  a  passionate  need  of  purity,  a  horror 
of  any  sort  of  dirtiness.  It  was  not  that  he  was  rid  of  his 
passions.  At  other  times  he  had  been  swept  headlong  by  them. 
But  his  passions  remained  chaste  even  when  he  yielded  to 
them:  for  he  never  sought  pleasure  through  them  but  the 
absolute  giving  of  himself  and  fulness  of  being.  And  when 
he  saw  that  he  had  been  deceived  he  flung  them  furiously  from 
him.  Lust  was  not  to  him  a  sin  like  any  other.  It  was  the 
great  Sin,  that  which  poisons  the  very  springs  of  life.  All 
those  in  whom  the  old  Christian  belief  has  not  been  crusted 
over  with  strange  conceptions,  all  those  who  still  feel  in  them- 
selves the  vigor  and  life  of  the  races,  which  through  the 
strengthening  of  an  heroic  discipline  have  built  up  "Western 
civilization,  will  have  no  difficulty  in  understanding  him.  Chris- 
tophe  despised  cosmopolitan  society,  whose  only  aim  and  creed 
was  pleasure. — In  truth  it  is  good  to  seek  pleasure,  to  desire 
pleasure  for  all  men,  to  combat  the  cramping  pessimistic  beliefs, 
that  have  come  to  weigh  upon  humanity  through  twenty  cen- 
turies of  Gothic  Christianity.  But  that  can  only  be  upon  con- 
dition that  it  is  a  generous  faith,  earnestly  desirous  of  the  good 
of  others.  But  instead  of  that,  what  happens?  The  most  piti- 
ful egoism.  A  handful  of  loose-living  men  and  women  trying 
to  give  their  senses  the  maximum  of  pleasure  with  the  mini- 
mum of  risk,  while  they  take  good  care  that  the  rest  shall 
drudge  for  it. — Yes,  no  doubt,  they  have  their  parlor  Socialism ! 
.  .  .  But  they  know  perfectly  well  that  their  doctrine  of 
pleasure  is  only  practicable  for  "  well-fed  "  people,  for  a  select 
pampered  few,  that  it  is  poison  to  the  poor.  .  .  . 
"  The  life  of  pleasure  is  a  rich  man's  life." 

Christophe  was  neither  rich  nor  likely  to  become  so.  When 
he  made  a  little  money  he  spent  it  at  once  on  music:  he  went 
without  food  to  go  to  concerts,  He  would,  take  cheap  seats 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  165 

in  the  gallery  of  the  Theatre  du  Chdtelet:  and  he  would  steep 
himself  in  music:  he  found  both  food  and  love  in  it.  He  had 
such  a  hunger  for  happiness  and  so  great  a  power  of  enjoying 
it  that  the  imperfections  of  the  orchestra  never  worried  him : 
he  would  stay  for  two  or  three  hours,  drowsy  and  beatific,  and 
wrong  notes  or  defective  taste  never  provoked  in  him  more  than 
an  indulgent  smile:  he  left  his  critical  faculty  outside:  he 
was  there  to  love,  not  to  judge.  Around  him  the  audience  sat 
motionless,  with  eyes  half  closed,  letting  itself  be  borne  on 
by  the  great  torrent  of  dreams.  Christophe  fancied  them  as  a 
mass  of  people  curled  up  in  the  shade,  like  an  enormous  cat, 
weaving  fantastic  dreams  of  lust  and  carnage.  In  the  deep 
golden  shadows  certain  faces  stood  out,  and  their  strange  charm 
and  silent  ecstasy  drew  Christophe's  eyes  and  heart:  he  loved 
them:  he  listened  through  them:  he  became  them,  body  and 
soul.  One  woman  in  the  audience  became  aware  of  it,  and 
between  her  and  Christophe  during  the  concert  there  was 
woven  one  of  those  obscure  sympathies,  which  touch  the  very 
depths,  though  never  by  one  word  are  they  translated  into  the 
region  of  consciousness,  while,  when  the  concert  is  over  and 
the  thread  that  binds  soul  to  soul  is  snapped,  nothing  is  left  of  it. 
It  is  a  state  familiar  to  lovers  of  music,  especially  when  they 
are  young  and  do  most  wholly  surrender:  the  essence  of  music 
is  so  completely  love,  that  the  full  savor  of  it  is  not  won  unless 
it  be  enjoyed  through  another,  and  so  it  is  that,  at  a  concert, 
we  instinctively  seek  among  the  throng  for  friendly  eyes, 
for  a  friend  with  whom  to  share  a  joy  too  great  for  ourselves 
alone. 

Among  such  friends,  the  friends  of  one  brief  hour,  whom 
Christophe  marked  out  for  choice  of  love,  the  better  to  taste 
the  sweetness  of  the  music,  he  was  attracted  by  one  face  which 
he  saw  again  and  again,  at  every  concert.  It  was  the  face  of 
a  little  grisette  who  seemed  to  adore  music  without  understand- 
ing it  at  all.  She  had  an  odd  little  profile,  a  short,  straight 
nose,  almost  in  line  with  her  slightly  pouting  lips  and  del- 
icately molded  chin,  fine  arched  eyebrows,  and  clear  eyes:  one 


166  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

of  those  pretty  little  faces  behind  the  veil  of  which  one  feels 
joy  and  laughter  concealed  by  calm  indifference.  It  is  per- 
haps in  such  light-hearted  girls,  little  creatures  working  for 
their  living,  that  one  finds  most  the  old  serenity  that  is  no 
more,  the  serenity  of  the  antique  statues  and  the  faces  of 
Raphael.  There  is  but  one  moment  in  their  lives,  the  first 
awakening  of  pleasure:  all  too  soon  their  lives  are  sullied. 
But  at  least  they  have  lived  for  one  lovely  hour. 

It  gave  Christophe  an  exquisite  pleasure  to  look  at  her: 
a  pretty  face  would  always  warm  his  heart:  he  could  enjoy 
without  desire:  he  found  joy  in  it,  force,  comfort, — almost 
virtue.  It  goes  without  saying  that  she  quickly  became  aware 
that  he  was  watching  her:  and,  unconsciously,  there  was  set  up 
between  them  a  magnetic  current.  And  as  they  met  at  al- 
most every  concert,  almost  always  in  the  same  places,  they 
quickly  learned  each  other's  likes  and  dislikes.  At  certain 
passages  they  would  exchange  meaning  glances:  when  she  par- 
ticularly liked  some  melody  she  would  just  put  out  her  tongue 
as  though  to  lick  her  lips:  or,  to  show  that  she  did  not  think 
much  of  it,  she  would  disdainfully  wrinkle  up  her  pretty  nose. 
In  these  little  tricks  of  hers  there  was  a  little  of  that  innocent 
posing  of  which  hardly  any  one  can  be  free  when  he  knows 
that  he  is  being  watched.  During  serious  music  she  would 
sometimes  try  to  look  grave  and  serious:  and  she  would  turn 
her  profile  towards  him,  and  look  absorbed,  and  smile  to  her- 
self, and  look  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  to  see  if  he  were 
watching.  They  had  become  very  good  friends,  without  ex- 
changing a  word,  and  even  without  having  attempted — at  least 
Christophe  did  not — to  meet  outside. 

At  last  by  chance  at  an  evening  concert  they  found  them- 
selves sitting  next  each  other.  After  a  moment  of  smiling 
hesitation  they  began  to  talk  amicably.  She  had  a  charming 
voice  and  said  many  stupid  things  about  music:  for  she  knew 
nothing  about  it  and  wanted  to  seem  as  if  she  knew:  but  she 
loved  it  passionately.  She  loved  the  worst  and  the  best,  Mas- 
senet and  Wagner:  only  the  mediocre  bored  her.  Music  was  a 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  167 

physical  pleasure  to  her:  she  drank  it  in  through  all  the 
pores  of  her  skin  as  Danae  did  the  golden  rain.  The  prelude  of 
Tristan  made  her  blood  run  cold:  and  she  loved  feeling  herself 
being  carried  away,  like  some  warrior's  prey,  by  the  Symphonia 
Eroica.  She  told  Christophe  that  Beethoven  was  deaf  and 
dumb,  and  that,  in  spite  of  it  all,  if  she  had  known  him,  she 
would  have  loved  him,  although  he  was  precious  ugly.  Chris- 
tophe protested  that  Beethoven  was  not  so  very  ugly:  then 
they  argued  about  beauty  and  ugliness:  and  she  agreed  that  it 
was  a  matter  of  taste :  what  was  beautiful  for  one  person  was  not 
so  for  another :  "  We're  not  golden  louis  and  can't  please  every 
one."  He  preferred  her  when  she  did  not  talk:  he  understood 
her  better.  During  the  death  of  Isolde  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  him :  her  hand  was  warm  and  moist :  he  held  it  in  his  until 
the  end  of  the  piece:  they  could  feel  life  coursing  through  the 
veins  of  their  clasped  hands. 

They  went  out  together :  it  was  near  midnight.  They  walked 
back  to  the  Latin  Quarter  talking  eagerly:  she  had  taken  his 
arm  and  he  took  her  home:  but  when  they  reached  the  door, 
and  she  seemed  to  suggest  that  he  should  go  up  and  see  her 
room,  he  disregarded  her  smile  and  the  friendliness  in  her 
eyes  and  left  her.  At  first  she  was  amazed,  then  furious:  then 
she  laughed  aloud  at  the  thought  of  his  stupidity:  and  then, 
when  she  had  reached  her  room  and  began  to  undress,  she  felt 
hurt  and  angry,  and  finally  wept  in  silence.  When  next  she  met 
him  at  a  concert  she  tried  to  be  dignified  and  indifferent  and 
crushing.  But  he  was  so  kind  to  her  that  she  could  not  hold 
to  her  resolution.  They  began  to  talk  once  more:  only  now 
she  was  a  little  reserved  with  him.  He  talked  to  her  warmly 
but  very  politely  and  always  about  serious  things,  and  the  music 
to  which  they  were  listening  and  what  it  meant  to  him.  She 
listened  attentively  and  tried  to  think  as  he  did.  The  mean- 
ing of  his  words  often  escaped  her:  but  she  believed  him  all 
the  same.  She  was  grateful  to  Christophe  and  had  a  respect 
for  him  which  she  hardly  showed.  By  tacit  agreement  they 
only  spoke  to  each  other  at  concerts.  He  met  her  once  sur- 


168  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

rounded  with  students.  They  bowed  gravely.  She  never  talked 
about  him  to  any  one.  In  the  depths  of  her  soul  there  was  a 
little  sanctuary,  a  quality  of  beauty,  purity,  consolation. 

And  so  Christophe,  by  his  presence,  by  the  mere  fact  of  his 
existence,  exercised  an  influence  that  brought  strength  and 
solace.  Wherever  he  passed  he  unconsciously  left  behind  the 
traces  of  his  inward  light.  He  was  the  last  to  have  any  notion 
of  it.  Near  him,  in  the  house  where  he  lived,  there  were  people 
whom  he  had  never  seen,  people  who,  without  themselves  sus- 
pecting it,  gradually  came  under  the  spell  of  his  beneficent 
radiance. 

For  several  weeks  Christophe  had  no  money  for  concerts 
even  by  fasting:  and  in  his  attic  under  the  roof,  now  that 
winter  was  coming  in,  he  was  numbed  with  the  cold:  he  could 
not  sit  still  at  his  table.  Then  he  would  get  up  and  walk 
about  Paris,  trying  to  warm  himself.  He  had  the  faculty  of 
forgetting  the  seething  town  about  him,  and  slipping  away 
into  space  and  the  infinite.  It  was  enough  for  him  to  see 
above  the  noisy  street  the  dead,  frozen  moon,  hung  there  in  the 
abysm  of  the  sky,  or  the  sun,  like  a  disc,  rolling  through  the 
white  mist;  then  Paris  would  sink  down  into  the  boundless 
void  and  all  the  life  of  it  would  seem  to  be  no  more  than  the 
phantom  of  a  life  that  had  been  once,  long,  long  ago  .  .  . 
ages  ago  .  .  .  The  smallest  tiny  sign,  imperceptible  to  the 
common  lot  of  men,  of  the  great  wild  life  of  Nature,  so  sparsely 
covered  with  the  livery  of  civilization,  was  enough  to  make  it 
all  come  rushing  mightily  up  before  his  gaze.  The  grass  grow- 
ing between  the  stones  of  the  streets,  the  budding  of  a  tree 
strangled  by  its  cast-iron  cage,  airless,  earthless,  on  some  bleak 
boulevard:  a  dog,  a  passing  bird,  the  last  relics  of  the  beasts 
and  birds  that  thronged  the  primeval  world,  which  man  has 
since  destroyed:  a  whirling  cloud  of  flies:  the  mysterious  epi- 
demic that  raged  through  a  whole  district: — these  were  enough 
in  the  thick  air  of  that  human  hothouse  to  bring  the  breath  of 
the  Spirit  of  the  Earth  up  to  slap  his  cheeks  and  whip  his 
energy  to  action. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  169 

During  those  long  walks,  when  he  was  often  starving,  and 
often  had  not  spoken  to  a  soul  for  days  together,  his  wealth 
of  dreams  seemed  inexhaustible.  Privation  and  silence  had 
aggravated  his  morbid  heated  condition.  At  night  he  slept 
feverishly,  and  had  exhausting  dreams:  he  saw  once  more  and 
never  ceased  to  see  the  old  house  and  the  room  in  which  he 
had  lived  as  a  child:  he  was  haunted  by  musical  obsessions. 
By  day  he  talked  and  never  ceased  to  talk  to  the  creatures 
within  himself  and  the  beings  whom  he  loved,  the  absent  and 
the  dead. 

One  cold  afternoon  in  December,  when  the  grass  was  cov- 
ered with  frost,  and  the  roofs  of  the  houses  and  the  great  domes 
were  glistening  through  the  fog,  and  the  trees,  with  their  cold, 
twisted,  naked  branches,  groping  through  the  mist  that  hung 
about  them,  looked  like  great  weeds  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea, — 
Christophe,  who  had  been  shivering  all  day  and  could  not  get 
warm  again,  went  into  the  Louvre,  which  he  hardly  knew  at 
all. 

Till  then  painting  had  never  moved  him  much.  He  was  too 
much  absorbed  by  the  world  within  himself  to  grasp  the 
world  of  color  and  form.  They  only  acted  on  him  through 
their  music  and  rhythm,  which  only  brought  him  an  indis- 
tinguishable echo  of  their  truth.  No  doubt  his  instinct  did 
obscurely  divine  the  selfsame  laws  that  rule  the  harmony  of 
visible  form,  as  of  the  form  of  sounds,  and  the  deep  waters 
of  the  soul,  from  which  spring  the  two  rivers  of  color  and 
sound,  to  flow  down  the  two  sides  of  the  mountain  of  life. 
But  he  only  knew  one  side  of  the  mountain,  and  he  was  lost 
in  the  kingdom  of  the  eye,  which  was  not  his.  And  so  he 
missed  the  secret  of  the  most  exquisite,  and  perhaps  the 
most  natural  charm  of  clear-eyed  France,  the  queen  of  the 
world  of  light. 

Even  had  he  been  interested  in  painting,  Christophe  was  too 
German  to  adapt  himself  to  so  widely  different  a  vision  of 
things.  He  was  not  one  of  those  up-to-date  Germans  who  decry 
the  German  way  of  feeling,  and  persuade  themselves  that  they 


170  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

admire  and  love  French  Impressionism  or  the  artists  of  the 
eighteenth  century, — except  when  they  go  farther  and  are  con- 
vinced that  they  understand  them  better  than  the  French. 
Christophe  was  a  barbarian,  perhaps :  but  he  was  frank  about  it. 
The  pink  flesh  of  Boucher,  the  fat  chins  of  Watteau,  the  bored 
shepherds  and  plump,  tight-laced  shepherdesses,  the  whipped- 
cream  souls,  the  virtuous  oglings  of  Greuze,  the  tucked  shirts 
of  Fragonard,  all  that  bare-legged  poesy  interested  him  no  more 
than  a  fashionable,  rather  spicy  newspaper.  He  did  not  see 
its  rich  and  brilliant  harmony;  the  voluptuous  and  sometimes 
melancholy  dreams  of  that  old  civilization,  the  highest  in  Europe, 
were  foreign  to  him.  As  for  the  French  school  of  the  sev- 
enteenth century,  he  liked  neither  its  devout  ceremony  nor  its 
pompous  portraits :  the  cold  reserve  of  the  gravest  of  the  masters, 
a  certain  grayness  of  soul  that  clouded  the  proud  works  of 
Nicolas  Poussin  and  the  pale  faces  of  Philippe  de  Champaigne, 
repelled  Christophe  from  old  French  art.  And,  once  more,  he 
knew  nothing  about  it.  If  he  had  known  anything  about  it  he 
would  have  misunderstood  it.  The  only  modern  painter  whose 
fascination  he  had  felt  at  all  in  Germany,  Boecklin  of  Basle, 
had  not  prepared  him  much  for  Latin  art.  Christophe  remem- 
bered the  shock  of  his  impact  with  that  brutal  genius,  which 
smacked  of  earth  and  the  musty  smell  of  the  heroic  beasts  that 
it  had  summoned  forth.  His  eyes,  seared  by  the  raw  light,  used 
to  the  frantic  motley  of  that  drunken  savage,  could  hardly 
adapt  themselves  to  the  half-tints,  the  dainty  and  mellifluous 
harmonies  of  French  art. 

But  no  man  with  impunity  can  live  in  a  foreign  land.  Un- 
known to  him  it  sets  its  seal  upon  him.  In  vain  does  he  with- 
draw into  himself:  upon  a  day  he  must  wake  up  to  find  that 
something  has  changed. 

There  was  a  change  in  Christophe  on  that  evening  when  he 
wandered  through  the  rooms  of  the  Louvre.  He  was  tired, 
cold,  hungry;  he  was  alone.  Around  him  darkness  was  descend- 
ing upon  the  empty  galleries,  and  sleeping  forms  awoke.  Chris- 
tophe was  very  cold  as  he  walked  in  silence  among  Egyptian 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  171 

sphinxes,  Assyrian  monsters,  bulls  of  Persepolis,  gleaming 
snakes  from  Palissy.  He  seemed  to  have  passed  into  a  magic 
world:  and  in  his  heart  there  was  a  strange,  mysterious  emo- 
tion. The  dream  of  humanity  wrapped  him  about, — the  strange 
flowers  of  the  soul.  .  .  . 

In  the  misty  gilded  light  of  the  picture-galleries,  and  the 
gardens  of  rich  brilliant  hues,  and  painted  airless  fields,  Chris- 
tophe,  in  a  state  of  fever,  on  the  very  brink  of  illness,  was 
visited  by  a  miracle. — He  was  walking,  numbed  by  hunger,  by 
the  coldness  of  the  galleries,  by  the  bewildering  mass  of  pic- 
tures :  his  head  was  whirling.  When  he  reached  the  end  of  the 
gallery  that  looks  on  to  the  river,  he  stood  before  the  Good 
Samaritan  of  Eembrandt,  and  leaned  on  the  rail  in  front  of 
the  pictures  to  keep  himself  from  falling:  he  closed  his  eyes 
for  a  moment.  When  he  opened  them  on  the  picture  in  front 
of  him — he  was  quite  close  to  it — and  he  was  held  spell- 
bound. .  .  . 

Day  was  spent.  Day  was  already  far  gone;  it  was  already 
dead.  The  invisible  sun  was  sinking  down  into  the  night.  It 
was  the  magic  hour  when  dreams  and  visions  come  mounting 
from  the  soul,  saddened  by  the  labors  of  the  day,  still,  musing 
drowsily.  All  is  silent,  only  the  beating  of  the  heart  is  heard. 
In  the  body  there  is  hardly  the  strength  to  move,  hardly  to 
breathe;  sadness;  resignation;  only  an  immense  longing  to  fall 
into  the  arms  of  a  friend,  a  hunger  for  some  miracle,  a  feeling 
that  some  miracle  must  come.  ...  It  comes!  A  flood  of 
golden  light  flames  through  the  twilight,  is  cast  upon  the  walls 
of  the  hovel,  on  the  shoulder  of  the  stranger  bearing  the  dying 
man,  touches  with  its  warmth  those  humble  objects,  and  those 
poor  creatures,  and  the  whole  takes  on  a  new  gentleness,  a 
divine  glory.  It  is  the  very  God,  clasping  in  his  terrible,  tender 
arms  the  poor  wretches,  weak,  ugly,  poor,  unclean,  the  poor 
down-at-heel  rascal,  the  miserable  creatures,  with  twisted  hag- 
gard faces,  thronging  outside  the  window,  the  apathetic,  silent 
creatures  standing  in  mortal  terror, — all  the  pitiful  human  be- 
ings of  Eembrandt,  the  herd  of  obscure  broken  creatures  who 


m  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

know  nothing,  can  do  nothing,  only  wait,  tremble,  weep,  and 
pray. — But  the  Master  is  there.  He  will  come :  it  is  known 
that  He  will  come.  Not  He  Himself  is  seen :  only  the  light  that 
goes  before,  and  the  shadow  of  the  light  which  He  casts  upon 
all  men.  .  .  . 

Christophe  left  the  Louvre,  staggering  and  tottering.  His 
head  ached.  He  could  not  see.  In  the  street  it  was  raining, 
but  he  hardly  noticed  the  puddles  between  the  flags  and  the 
water  trickling  down  from  his  shoes.  Over  the  Seine  the 
yellowish  sky  was  lit  up,  as  the  day  waned,  by  an  inward  flame 
— like  the  light  of  a  lamp.  Still  Christophe  was  spellbound, 
hypnotized.  It  seemed  as  though  nothing  existed:  not  the 
carriages  rattling  over  the  stones  with  a  pitiless  noise:  the 
passers-by  were  not  banging  into  him  with  their  wet  umbrellas : 
he  was  not  walking  in  the  street:  perhaps  he  was  sitting  at 
home  and  dreaming:  perhaps  he  had  ceased  to  exist.  .  .  . 
And  suddenly, —  (he  was  so  weak!) — he  turned  giddy  and  felt 
himself  falling  heavily  forward.  ...  It  was  only  for  the 
flash  of  a  second:  he  clenched  his  fists,  hurled  himself  back- 
ward, and  recovered  his  balance. 

At  that  very  moment  when  he  emerged  into  consciousness 
his  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  a  woman  standing  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street,  who  seemed  to  be  looking  for  recognition.  He 
stopped  dead,  trying  to  remember  when  he  had  seen  her  before. 
It  was  only  after  a  moment  or  two  that  he  could  place  those 
sad,  soft  eyes:  it  was  the  little  French  governess  whom,  un- 
wittingly, he  had  had  dismissed  in  Germany,  for  whom  he  had 
been  looking  for  so  long  to  beg  her  to  forgive  him.  She  had 
stopped,  too,  in  the  busy  throng,  and  was  looking  at  him.  Sud- 
denly he  saw  her  try  to  cross  through  the  crowd  of  people  and 
step  down  into  the  road  to  come  to  him.  He  rushed  to  meet 
her:  but  they  were  separated  by  a  block  in  the  traffic:  he  saw 
her  again  for  a  moment  struggling  on  the  other  side  of  that  liv- 
ing wall :  he  tried  to  force  his  way  through,  was  knocked  over 
by  a  horse,  slipped  and  fell  on  the  slippery  asphalt,  and  was  all 
but  run  over.  When  he  got  up,  covered  with  mud,  and  sue- 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  173 

ceeded  in  reaching  the  other  side  of  the  street,  she  had  dis- 
appeared. 

He  tried  to  follow  her,  but  he  had  another  attack  of  giddi- 
ness, and  he  had  to  give  it  up.  Illness  was  close  upon  him : 
he  felt  that,  but  he  would  not  submit  to  it.  He  set  his  teeth, 
and  would  not  go  straight  home,  but  went  far  out  of  his  way. 
It  was  just  a  useless  torment  to  him:  he  had  to  admit  that  he 
was  beaten:  his  legs  ached,  he  dragged  along,  and  only  reached 
home  with  frightful  difficulty.  Half-way  up  the  stairs  he 
choked,  and  had  to  sit  down.  When  he  got  to  his  icy  room  he 
refused  to  go  to  bed :  he  sat  in  his  chair,  wet  through ;  his  head 
was  heavy  and  he  could  hardly  breathe,  and  he  drugged  himself 
with  music  as  broken  as  himself.  He  heard  a  few  fugitive  bars 
of  the  Unfinished  Symphony  of  Schubert.  Poor  Schubert !  He, 
too,  was  alone  when  he  wrote  that,  feverish,  somnolent,  in  that 
semitorpid  condition  which  precedes  the  last  great  sleep :  he  sat 
dreaming  by  the  fireside :  all  round  him  were  heavy  drowsy 
melodies,  like  stagnant  water :  he  dwelt  on  them,  like  a  child 
half-asleep  delighting  in  some  self-told  story,  and  repeating 
some  passage  in  it  twenty  times:  so  sleep  comes,  then  death. 
.  .  .  And  Christophe  heard  fleetingly  that  other  music,  with 
burning  hands,  closed  eyes,  a  little  weary  smile,  heart  big  with 
sighs,  dreaming  of  the  deliverance  of  death : — the  first  chorus 
in  the  Cantata  of  J.  S.  Bach :  "  Dear  God,  when  shall  I  die  ?  " 
...  It  was  sweet  to  sink  back  into  the  soft  melodies  slowly 
floating  by,  to  hear  the  distant,  muffled  clangor  of  the  bells. 
...  To  die,  to  pass  into  the  peace  of  earth !  .  .  .  Und 
dann  seller  Erde  werden.  ..."  And  then  himself  to  become 
earth.  ..." 

Christophe  shook  off  these  morbid  thoughts,  the  murderous 
smile  of  the  siren  who  lies  in  wait  for  the  hours  of  weakness  of 
the  soul.  He  got  up,  and  tried  to  walk  about  his  room :  but 
he  could  not  stand.  He  was  shaking  and  shivering  with  fever. 
He  had  to  go  to  bed.  He  felt  that  it  was  serious  this  time :  but 
he  did  not  lay  down  his  arms:  he  never  was  of  those  who, 
when  they  are  ill,  yield  utterly  to  their  illness:  he  struggled, 


174  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

he  refused  to  be  ill,  and,  above  all,  he  was  absolutely  determined 
not  to  die.  He  had  his  poor  mother  waiting  for  him  in  Ger- 
many. And  he  had  his  work  to  do :  he  would  not  yield  to  death. 
He  clenched  his  chattering  teeth,  and  firmly  grasped  his  will 
that  was  oozing  away:  he  was  like  a  sturdy  swimmer  battling 
with  the  waves  dashing  over  him.  At  every  moment,  down  he 
plunged:  his  mind  wandered,  endless  fancies  haunted  him, 
memories  of  Germany  and  of  Parisian  society:  he  was  obsessed 
by  rhythms  and  scraps  of  melody  which  went  round,  and  round, 
and  round,  like  horses  in  a  circus:  the  sudden  shock  of  the 
golden  light  of  the  Good  Samaritan :  the  tense,  stricken  faces  in 
the  shadow:  and  then,  dark  nothingness  and  night.  Then  up 
he  would  come  once  more,  wrenching  away  the  grimacing  mists, 
clenching  his  fists,  and  setting  his  jaw.  He  clung  to  all  those 
whom  he  loved  in  the  present  and  the  past,  to  the  face  of  the 
friend  he  had  just  seen  in  the  street,  his  dear  mother,  and  to  the 
indestructible  life  within  himself,  that  he  felt  was  like  a  rock, 
impervious  to  death.  But  once  more  the  rock  was  covered 
by  the  tide:  the  waves  dashed  over  it,  and  tore  his  soul  away 
from  its  hold  upon  it:  it  was  borne  headlong  and  dashed  by 
the  foam.  And  Christophe  struggled  in  delirium,  babbling 
strangely,  conducting  and  playing  an  imaginary  orchestra: 
trombones,  horns,  cymbals,  timbals,  bassoons,  double-bass,  .  .  . 
he  scraped,  blew,  beat  the  drum,  frantically.  The  poor  wretch 
was  bubbling  over  with  suppressed  music.  For  weeks  he  had 
been  unable  to  hear  or  play  any  music,  and  he  was  like  a  boiler 
at  high  pressure,  near  bursting-point.  Certain  insistent  phrases 
bored  into  his  brain  like  gimlets,  pierced  his  skull,  and  made 
him  scream  with  agony.  After  these  attacks  he  would  fall  back 
on  his  pillow,  dead  tired,  wet  through,  utterly  weak,  breath- 
less, choking.  He  had  placed  his  water-jug  by  his  bedside,  and 
he  took  great  draughts  of  it.  The  various  noises  of  the  adjoin- 
ing rooms,  the  banging  of  the  attic  doors,  made  him  start.  He 
was  filled  with  a  delirious  disgust  for  the  creatures  swarming 
round  him.  But  his  will  fought  on,  sounded  a  warlike  clarion- 
note,  declaring  battle  on  all  devils.  ..."  Und  wenn  die 


THE  MABKET-PLACE  175 

Welt  voll  Teufel  war,  und  wollten  uns  verschlingen,  so  furchten 
wir  uns  nicht  so  sehr.  ..."  ("And  even  though  the  world 
were  full  of  devils,  all  seeking  to  devour  us,  we  should  not  be 
afraid.  .  .  ."). 

And  over  the  sea  of  scalding  shadows  that  dashed  over  him 
there  came  a  sudden  calm,  glimpses  of  light,  a  gentle  murmur- 
ing of  violins  and  viols,  the  clear  triumphant  notes  of  trumpets 
and  horns,  while,  almost  motionless,  like  a  great  wall,  there  rose 
from  the  sick  man's  soul  an  indomitable  song,  like  a  choral  of 
J.  S.  Bach. 

While  he  was  fighting  against  the  phantoms  of  fever  and 
the  choking  in  his  lungs,  he  was  dimly  aware  that  some  one 
had  opened  the  door,  and  that  a  woman  entered  with  a  candle 
in  her  hand.  He  thought  it  was  another  hallucination.  He 
tried  to  speak,  but  could  not,  and  fell  back  on  his  pillow. 
When,  every  now  and  then,  he  was  brought  for  a  moment  back 
to  consciousness,  he  felt  that  his  pillow  had  been  raised,  that  his 
feet  had  been  wrapped  up,  that  there  was  something  burning 
his  back,  or  he  would  see  the  woman,  whose  face  was  not  al- 
together unfamiliar,  sitting  at  the  foot  of  his  bed.  Then  he  saw 
another  face,  that  of  a  doctor  using  a  stethoscope.  Christophe 
could  not  hear  what  they  were  saying,  but  he  gathered  that 
they  were  talking  of  sending  him  to  the  hospital.  He  tried  to 
protest,  to  cry  out  that  he  would  not  go,  that  he  would  die 
where  he  was,  alone:  but  he  could  only  frame  incomprehensible 
sounds.  But  the  woman  understood  him :  for  she  took  his  part, 
and  reassured  him.  He  tried  hard  to  find  out  who  she  was. 
As  soon  as  he  could,  with  frightful  effort,  frame  a  sentence,  he 
asked  her.  She  replied  that  she  lived  in  the  next  attic  and  had 
heard  him  moaning  through  the  wall,  and  had  taken  the  liberty 
of  coming  in,  thinking  that  he  wanted  help.  She  begged  him 
respectfully  not  to  wear  himself  out  with  talking.  He  obeyed 
her.  He  was  worn  out  with  the  effort  he  had  made:  he  lay 
still  and  said  nothing:  but  his  brain  went  on  working,  pain- 
fully gathering  together  its  scattered  memories.  Where  had 


176  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IK  PARIS 

he  seen  her?  ...  At  last  he  remembered:  yes,  he  had  met 
her  on  the  attic  landing:  she  was  a  servant,  and  her  name  was 
Sidonie. 

He  watched  her  with  half-closed  eyes,  so  that  she  could  not 
see  him.  She  was  little,  and  had  a  grave  face,  a  wide  forehead, 
hair  drawn  back,  so  that  her  temples  were  exposed;  her  cheeks 
were  pale  and  high-boned;  she  had  a  short  nose,  pale  blue  eyes, 
with  a  soft,  steady  look  in  them,  thick  lips  tightly  pressed  to- 
gether, an  anemic  complexion,  a  humble,  deliberate,  and  rather 
stiff  manner.  She  looked  after  Christophe  with  busy  silent  de- 
votion, without  a  spark  of  familiarity,  and  without  ever  break- 
ing down  the  reserve  of  a  servant  who  never  forgets  class 
differences. 

However,  little  by  little,  when  he  was  better  and  could  talk 
to  her,  Christophe's  affectionate  cordiality  made  Sidonie  talk 
to  him  a  little  more  freely:  but  she  was  always  on  her  guard: 
there  were  obviously  certain  things  which  she  would  not  tell. 
She  was  a  mixture  of  humility  and  pride.  Christophe  learned 
that  she  came  from  Brittany,  where  she  had  left  her  father, 
of  whom  she  spoke  very  discreetly:  but  Christophe  gathered 
that  he  did  nothing  but  drink,  have  a  good  time,  and  live  on  hia 
daughter:  she  put  up  with  it,  without  saying  anything,  from 
pride:  and  she  never  failed  to  send  him  part  of  her  month's 
wages :  but  she  was  not  taken  in.  She  had  also  a  younger  sister 
who  was  preparing  for  a  teacher's  examination,  and  she  was 
very  proud  of  her.  She  was  paying  almost  all  the  expenses 
of  her  education.  She  worked  frightfully  hard,  with  grim 
determination. 

"  Have  you  a  good  situation  ?  "  asked  Christophe. 

"Yes.     But  I  am  thinking  of  leaving." 

"Why?     Aren't  they  good  to  you?" 

"  Oh !  no.     They're  very  good  to  me." 

"  Don't  they  pay  you  enough  ?  " 

"Yes.   ..." 

He  did  not  quite  understand :  he  tried  to  understand,  and  en- 
couraged her  to  talk.  She  had  nothing  to  tell  him  but  the 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  177 

monotony  of  her  life,  and  the  difficulty  of  earning  a  living: 
she  did  not  lay  any  stress  on  it:  she  was  not  afraid  of  work: 
it  was  a  necessity  to  her,  almost  a  pleasure.  She  never  spoke  of 
the  thing  that  tried  her  most :  boredom.  He  guessed  it.  Little 
by  little,  with  the  intuition  of  perfect  sympathy,  he  saw  that 
her  suffering  was  increasing,  and  it  was  made  more  acute 
for  him  by  the  memory  of  the  trials  supported  by  his  own 
mother  in  a  similar  existence.  He  saw,  as  though  he  had  lived 
it,  the  drab,  unhealthy,  unnatural  existence — the  ordinary  ex- 
istence imposed  on  servants  by  the  middle-classes: — employers 
who  were  not  so  much  unkind  as  indifferent,  sometimes  leav- 
ing her  for  days  together  without  speaking  a  word  outside  her 
work.  The  hours  and  hours  spent  in  the  stuffy  kitchen,  the  one 
small  window,  blocked  up  by  a  meat-safe,  looking  out  on  to  a 
white  wall.  And  her  only  pleasure  was  when  she  was  told  care- 
lessly that  her  sauce  was  good  or  the  meat  well  cooked.  A 
cramped  airless  life  with  no  prospect,  with  no  ray  of  desire  or 
hope,  without  interest  of  any  kind. — The  worst  time  of  all  for 
her  was  when  her  employers  went  away  to  the  country.  They 
economized  by  not  taking  her  with  them:  they  paid  her  wages 
for  the  month,  but  not  enough  to  take  her  home :  they  gave 
her  permission  to  go  at  her  own  expense.  She  would  not,  she 
could  not  do  that.  And  so  she  was  left  alone  in  the  deserted 
house.  She  had  no  desire  to  go  out,  and  did  not  even  talk 
to  other  servants,  whose  coarseness  and  immorality  she  despised. 
She  never  went  out  in  search  of  amusement:  she  was  naturally 
serious,  economical,  and  afraid  of  misadventure.  She  sat  in 
her  kitchen,  or  in  her  room,  from  whence  across  the  chimneys 
she  could  see  the  top  of  a  tree  in  the  garden  of  a  hospital.  She 
did  not  read,  but  tried  to  work  listlessly:  she  would  sit  there 
dreaming,  bored,  bored  to  tears :  she  had  a  singular  and  infinite 
capacity  for  weeping:  it  was  her  only  pleasure.  But  when  her 
boredom  weighed  too  heavily  on  her  she  could  not  even  weep : 
she  was  frozen,  sick  at  heart,  and  dead.  Then  she  would  pull 
herself  together:  or  life  would  return  of  its  own  accord.  She 
would  think  of  her  sister,  listen  to  a  barrel-organ  in  the  distance, 


178  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

and  dream,  and  slowly  count  the  days  until  she  had  gained 
such  and  such  a  sum  of  money :  she  would  be  out  in  her  reckon- 
ing, and  begin  to  count  all  over  again:  she  would  fall  asleep. 
So  the  days  passed.  .  .  . 

The  fits  of  depression  alternated  with  outbursts  of  childish 
chatter  and  laughter.  She  would  make  fun  of  herself  and 
other  people.  She  watched  and  judged  her  employers,  and  their 
anxieties  fed  by  their  want  of  occupation,  and  her  mistress's 
moods  and  melancholy,  and  the  so-called  interests  of  these  so- 
called  people  of  culture,  how  they  patronized  a  picture,  or  a 
piece  of  music,  or  a  book  of  verse.  With  her  rude  common 
sense,  as  far  removed  from  the  snobbishness  of  the  very  Parisian 
servants  as  from  the  crass  stupidity  of  the  very  provincial  girls, 
who  only  admire  what  they  do  not  understand,  she  had  a  re- 
spectful contempt  for  their  dabbling  in  music,  their  pointless 
chatter,  and  all  those  perfectly  useless  and  tiresome  intellectual 
smatterings  which  play  so  large  a  part  in  such  hypocritical  ex- 
istences. She  could  not  help  silently  comparing  the  real  life, 
with  which  she  grappled,  with  the  imaginary  pains  and  pleas- 
ures of  that  cushioned  life,  in  which  everything  seems  to  be  the 
product  of  boredom.  She  was  not  in  revolt  against  it.  Things 
were  so:  things  were  so.  She  accepted  everything,  knaves  and 
fools  alike.  She  said : 

"  It  takes  all  sorts  to  make  a  world." 

Christophe  imagined  that  she  was  borne  up  by  her  religion: 
but  one  day  she  said,  speaking  of  others  who  were  richer  and 
more  happy : 

"  But  in  the  end  we  shall  all  be  equal." 

"  When  ?  "  asked  Christophe.     "  After  the  social  revolution  ?  " 

"  The  revolution  ?  "  said  she.  "  Oh,  there'll  be  much  water 
flowing  under  bridges  before  that.  I  don't  believe  that  stuff. 
Things  will  always  be  the  same." 

"  When  shall  we  all  be  equal,  then  ?  " 

"  When  we're  dead,  of  course !     That's  the  end  of  everybody." 

He  was  surprised  by  her  calm  materialism.  He  dared  not 
say  to  her: 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  179 

"  Isn't  it  a  frightful  thing,  in  that  case,  if  there  is  only  one 
life,  that  it  should  be  the  like  of  yours,  while  there  are  so  many 
others  who  are  happy?" 

But  she  seemed  to  have  guessed  his  thought:  she  went  on 
phlegmatically,  resignedly,  and  a  little  ironically : 

"  One  has  to  put  up  with  it.  Everybody  cannot  draw  a  prize. 
I've  drawn  a  blank :  so  much  the  worse ! " 

She  never  even  thought  of  looking  for  a  more  profitable 
place  outside  France.  (She  had  once  been  offered  a  situa- 
tion in  America.)  The  idea  of  leaving  the  country  never 
entered  her  head.  She  said: 

"  Stones  are  hard  everywhere." 

There  was  in  her  a  profound,  skeptical,  and  mocking  fatal- 
ism. She  was  of  the  stock  that  has  little  or  no  faith,  few  con- 
sidered reasons  for  living,  and  yet  a  tremendous  vitality — the 
stock  of  the  French  peasantry,  industrious  and  apathetic,  riotous 
and  submissive,  who  have  no  great  love  of  life,  but  cling  to  it, 
and  have  no  need  of  artificial  stimulants  to  keep  up  their 
courage. 

Christophe,  who  had  not  yet  come  across  them,  was  aston- 
ished to  find  in  the  girl  an  absence  of  all  faith:  he  marveled 
at  her  tenacious  hold  on  life,  without  pleasure  or  purpose,  and 
most  of  all  he  admired  her  sturdy  moral  sense  that  had  no  need 
of  prop  or  support.  Till  then  he  had  only  seen  the  French 
people  through  naturalistic  novels,  and  the  theories  of  the  man- 
nikins  of  contemporary  literature,  who,  reacting  from  the  art 
of  the  century  of  pastoral  scenes  and  the  Eevolution,  loved  to 
present  natural  man  as  a  vicious  brute,  in  order  to  sanctify  their 
own  vices.  .  .  .  He  was  amazed  when  he  discovered  Sidonie's 
uncompromising  honesty.  It  was  not  a  matter  of  morality  but 
of  instinct  and  pride.  She  had  her  aristocratic  pride.  For  it 
is  foolish  to  imagine  that  everybody  belonging  to  the  people  is 
"  popular."  The  people  have  their  aristocrats  just  as  the  upper 
classes  have  their  vulgarians.  The  aristocrats  are  those  creatures 
whose  instincts,  and  perhaps  whose  blood,  are  purer  than  those 
of  the  others:  those  who  know  and  are  conscious  of  what  they 


180  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

are,  and  must  be  true  to  themselves.  They  are  in  the  minority : 
but,  even  when  they  are  forced  to  live  apart,  the  others  know 
that  they  are  the  salt  of  the  earth:  and  the  fact  of  their  ex- 
istence is  a  check  upon  the  others,  who  are  forced  to  model  them- 
selves upon  them,  or  to  pretend  to  do  so.  Every  province,  every 
village,  every  congregation  of  men,  is,  to  a  certain  degree, 
what  its  aristocrats  are:  and  public  opinion  varies  accordingly, 
and  is,  in  one  place,  severe,  in  another,  lax.  The  present  anarchy 
and  upheaval  of  the  majority  will  not  change  the  unvoiced 
power  of  the  minority.  It  is  more  dangerous  for  them  to  be 
uprooted  from  their  native  soil  and  scattered  far  and  wide  in 
the  great  cities.  But  even  so,  lost  amid  strange  surroundings, 
living  in  isolation,  yet  the  individualities  of  the  good  stock 
persist  and  never  mix  with  those  about  them. — Sidonie  knew 
nothing,  wished  to  know  nothing,  of  all  that  Christophe  had 
seen  in  Paris.  She  was  no  more  interested  in  the  sentimental 
and  unclean  literature  of  the  newspapers  than  in  the  political 
news.  She  did  not  even  know  that  there  were  Popular  Uni- 
versities: and,  if  she  had  known,  it  is  probable  that  she  would 
have  put  herself  out  as  little  to  go  to  them  as  she  did  to  hear 
a  sermon.  She  did  her  work,  and  thought  for  herself:  she  was 
not  concerned  with  what  other  people  thought.  Christophe 
congratulated  her. 

"  Why  is  that  surprising  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  am  like  every- 
body else.  You  haven't  met  any  French  people." 

"  I've  been  living  among  them  for  a  year,"  said  Christophe, 
"  and  I  haven't  met  a  single  one  who  thought  of  anything  but 
amusing  himself  or  of  aping  those  who  amuse  him." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Sidonie.  "  You  have  only  seen  rich 
people.  The  rich  are  the  same  everywhere.  You've  seen 
nothing  at  all." 

"That's  true,"  said  Christophe.     "I'm  beginning." 

For  the  first  time  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  people  of 
France,  men  and  women  who  seem  to  be  built  for  eternity,  who 
are  one  with  the  earth,,  who,  like  the  earth,  have  seen  so  many 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  181 

conquering  races,  so  many  masters  of  a  day,  pass  away,  while 
they  themselves  endure  and  do  not  pass. 

When  he  was  getting  better  and  was  allowed  to  get  up  for 
a  little,  the  first  thing  he  thought  of  was  to  pay  Sidonie  back 
for  the  expenses  she  had  incurred  during  his  illness.  It  was 
impossible  for  him  to  go  about  Paris  looking  for  work,  and  he 
had  to  bring  himself  to  write  to  Hecht:  he  asked  him  for  an 
advance  on  account  of  future  work.  With  his  amazing  com- 
bination of  indifference  and  kindliness  Hecht  made  him  wait  a 
fortnight  for  a  reply — a  fortnight  during  which  Christophe  tor- 
mented himself  and  practically  refused  to  touch  any  of  the  food 
Sidonie  brought  him,  and  would  only  accept  a  little  bread  and 
milk,  which  she  forced  him  to  take,  and  then  he  grumbled  and 
was  angry  with  himself  because  he  had  not  earned  it:  then, 
without  a  word,  Hecht  sent  him  the  sum  he  asked :  and  not  once 
during  the  months  of  Christophe's  illness  did  Hecht  make  any 
inquiry  after  him.  He  had  a  genius  for  making  himself  dis- 
liked even  when  he  was  doing  a  kindness.  Even  in  his  kind- 
ness Hecht  could  not  be  generous. 

Sidonie  came  every  day  in  the  afternoon  and  again  in  the 
evening.  She  cooked  Christophe's  dinner  for  him.  She  made 
no  noise,  but  went  quietly  about  her  business:  and  when  she 
saw  the  dilapidated  condition  of  his  clothes  she  took  them  away 
to  mend  them.  Insensibly  there  had  crept  an  element  of  af- 
fection into  their  relation.  Christophe  talked  at  length  about 
his  mother:  and  that  touched  Sidonie:  she  would  put  herself 
in  Louisa's  place,  alone  in  Germany:  and  she  had  a  maternal 
feeling  for  Christophe,  and  when  he  talked  to  her  he  tried  to 
trick  his  need  of  mothering  and  love,  from  which  a  man  suf- 
fers most  when  he  is  weak  and  ill.  He  felt  nearer  Louisa  with 
Sidonie  than  with  anybody  else.  Sometimes  he  would  confide 
his  artistic  troubles  to  her.  She  would  pity  him  gently,  though 
she  seemed  to  regard  such  sorrows  of  the  intellect  ironically. 
That,  too,  reminded  him  of  his  mother  and  comforted  him. 

He  tried  to  get  her  to  confide  in  him :  but  she  was  much 


182  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

less  open  than  he.  He  asked  her  jokingly  why  she  did  not  get 
married.  And  she  would  reply  in  her  usual  tone  of  mocking 
resignation  that  "  it  was  not  allowed  for  servants  to  marry :  it 
complicates  things  too  much.  Besides,  she  was  sure  to  make  a 
bad  choice,  and  that  is  not  pleasant.  Men  are  sordid  creatures. 
They  come  courting  when  a  woman  has  money,  squeeze  it  out 
of  her,  and  then  leave  her  in  the  lurch.  She  had  seen  too  many 
cases  of  that  and  was  not  inclined  to  do  the  same." — She  did 
not  tell  him  of  her  own  unfortunate  experience :  her  future  hus- 
band had  left  her  when  he  found  that  she  was  giving  all  her 
earnings  to  her  family. — Christophe  used  to  see  her  in  the  court- 
yard mothering  the  children  of  a  family  living  in  the  house. 
When  she  met  them  alone  on  the  stairs  she  would  sometimes  em- 
brace them  passionately.  Christophe  would  fancy  her  occupy- 
ing the  place  of  a  lady  of  his  acquaintance :  she  was  not  a  fool, 
and  she  was  no  plainer  than  many  another  woman:  he  declared 
that  in  the  lady's  place  she  would  have  been  the  better  woman  of 
the  two.  There  are  so  many  splendid  lives  hidden  in  the  world, 
unknown  and  unsuspected !  And,  on  the  other  hand,  the  hosts 
of  the  living  dead,  who  encumber  the  earth,  and  take  up  the 
room  and  the  happiness  of  others  in  the  light  of  the  sun !  .  .  . 

Christophe  had  no  ulterior  thought.  He  was  fond,  too  fond 
of  her :  he  let  her  coddle  him  like  a  child. 

Some  days  Sidonie  would  be  queer  and  depressed :  but  he  at- 
tributed that  to  her  work.  Once  when  they  were  talking  she 
got  up  suddenly  and  left  him,  making  some  excuse  about  her 
work.  Finally,  after  a  day  when  Christophe  had  been  more 
confidential  than  usual,  she  broke  off  her  visits  for  a  time:  and 
when  she  came  back  she  would  only  talk  to  him  constrainedly. 
He  wondered  what  he  could  have  done  to  offend  her.  He  asked 
her.  She  replied  quickly  that  he  had  not  offended  her :  but  she 
stayed  away  again.  A  few  days  later  she  told  him  that  she  was 
going  away:  she  had  given  up  her  situation  and  was  leaving 
the  house.  Coldly  and  reservedly  she  thanked  him  for  all  his 
kindness,  told  him  she  hoped  he  would  soon  recover,  and  that  his 
mother  would  remain  in  good  health,  and  then  she  said  good-by. 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  183 

He  was  so  astonished  at  her  abrupt  departure  that  he  did  not 
know  what  to  say :  he  tried  to  discover  her  reasons :  she  replied 
evasively.  He  asked  her  where  she  was  going :  she  did  not  reply, 
and,  to  cut  short  his  questions,  she  got  up  to  go.  As  she  reached 
the  door  he  held  out  his  hand :  she  grasped  it  warmly :  but  her 
face  did  not  betray  her,  and  to  the  end  she  maintained  her  stiff, 
cold  manner.  She  went  away. 
He  never  understood  why. 

He  dragged  through  the  winter — a  wet,  misty,  muddy  winter. 
Weeks  on  end  without  sun.  Although  Christophe  was  better 
he  was  by  no  means  recovered.  He  still  had  a  little  pain  in  his 
lungs,  a  lesion  which  healed  slowly,  and  fits  of  coughing  which 
kept  him  from  sleeping  at  night.  The  doctor  had  forbidden  him 
to  go  out.  He  might  just  as  well  have  ordered  him  to  go  to  the 
Riviera  or  the  Canary  Islands.  He  had  to  go  out!  If  he  did 
not  go  out  to  look  for  his  dinner,  his  dinner  would  certainly 
not  come  to  look  for  him. — And  he  was  ordered  medicines  which 
he  could  not  afford.  And  so  he  gave  up  consulting  doctors:  it 
was  a  waste  of  money :  and  besides  he  was  always  ill  at  ease  with 
them:  they  could  not  understand  each  other:  they  lived  in 
separate  worlds.  They  had  an  ironical  and  rather  contemptu- 
ous pity  for  the  poor  devil  of  an  artist  who  claimed  to  be  a 
world  to  himself,  and  was  swept  along  like  a  straw  by  the  river 
of  life.  He  was  humiliated  by  being  examined,  and  prodded, 
and  handled  by  these  men.  He  was  ashamed  of  his  sick  body, 
and  thought : 

"  How  glad  I  shall  be  when  it  is  dead ! " 

In  spite  of  loneliness,  illness,  poverty,  and  so  many  other 
causes  of  suffering,  Christophe  bore  his  lot  patiently.  He  had 
never  been  so  patient.  He  was  surprised  at  himself.  Illness  is 
often  a  blessing.  By  ravaging  the  body  it  frees  the  soul  and 
purifies  it:  during  the  nights  and  days  of  forced  inaction 
thoughts  arise  which  are  fearful  of  the  raw  light  of  day,  and  are 
scorched  by  the  sun  of  health.  No  man  who  has  never  been  ill 
can  have  a  thorough  knowledge  of  himself. 


184  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

His  illness  had,  in  a  queer  way,  soothed  Christophe.  It  had 
purged  him  of  the  coarser  elements  of  his  nature.  Through 
his  most  subtle  nerves  he  felt  the  world  of  mysterious  forces 
which  dwell  in  each  of  us,  though  the  tumult  of  life  prevents 
our  hearing  them.  Since  his  visit  to  the  Louvre,  in  his  hours 
of  fever,  the  smallest  memories  of  which  were  graven  upon  his 
mind,  he  had  lived  in  an  atmosphere  like  that  of  the  Rem- 
brandt picture,  warm,  soft,  profound.  He  too  felt  in  his  heart 
the  magic  beams  of  an  invisible  sun.  And  although  he  did  not 
believe,  he  knew  that  he  was  not  alone :  a  God  was  holding  him 
by  the  hand,  and  leading  him  to  the  predestined  goal  of  his  en- 
deavors. He  trusted  in  Him  like  a  little  child. 

For  the  first  time  for  years  he  felt  that  he  must  rest.  The 
lassitude  of  his  convalescence  was  in  itself  a  rest  for  him  after 
the  extraordinary  tension  of  mind  that  had  gone  before  his  ill- 
ness and  had  left  him  still  exhausted.  Christophe,  who  for 
many  months  had  been  continually  on  the  alert  and  strained, 
upon  his  guard,  felt  the  fixity  of  his  gaze  slowly  relax.  He  was 
not  less  strong  for  it:  he  was  more  human.  The  great  though 
rather  monstrous  quality  of  life  of  the  man  of  genius  had  passed 
into  the  background:  he  found  himself  a  man  like  the  rest, 
purged  of  the  fanaticism  of  his  mind,  and  all  the  hardness  and 
mercilessness  of  his  actions.  He  hated  nothing:  he  gave  no 
thought  to  things  that  exasperated  him,  or,  if  he  did,  he 
shrugged  them  off:  he  thought  less  of  his  own  troubles  and 
more  of  the  troubles  of  others.  Since  Sidonie  had  reminded 
him  of  the  silent  suffering  of  the  lowly,  fighting  on  without 
complaint,  all  over  the  world,  he  forgot  himself  in  them.  He 
who  was  not  usually  sentimental  now  had  periods  of  that  mystic 
tenderness  which  is  the  flower  of  weakness  and  sickness.  In 
the  evening,  as  he  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  window-sill,  gazing 
down  into  the  courtyard  and  listening  to  all  the  mysterious 
noises  of  the  night,  ...  a  voice  singing  in  a  house  near  by, 
made  moving  by  the  distance,  or  a  little  girl  artlessly  strum- 
ming Mozart,  ...  he  thought: 

"  All  you  whom  I  love  though  I  know  you  not !    You  whom 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  185 

life  has  not  sullied;  you,  who  dream  of  great  things,  that  you 
know  to  be  impossible,  while  you  fight  for  them  against  the  en- 
vious world, — may  you  be  happy — it  is  so  good  to  be  happy! 
.  .  .  Oh,  my  friends,  I  know  that  you  are  there,  and  I 
hold  my  arms  out  to  you.  .  .  .  There  is  a  wall  between  us. 
Stone  by  stone  I  am  breaking  it  down,  but  I  am  myself 
broken  in  the  labor  of  it.  Shall  we  ever  be  together?  Shall 
I  reach  you  before  another  wall  is  raised  up  between  us:  the 
wall  of  death  ?  .  .  .  No  matter !  Though  all  my  life  I  am 
alone,  so  only  I  may  work  for  you,  do  you  good,  and  you 
may  love  me  a  little,  later  on,  when  I  am  dead!  ..." 

So  the  convalescent  Christophe  was  nursed  by  those  two 
good  foster-mothers  " Liebe  und  Noth  "  (Love  and  Poverty). 

While  his  will  was  thus  in  abeyance  Christophe  felt  a  long- 
ing to  be  with  people.  And,  although  he  was  still  very  weak, 
and  it  was  a  very  foolish  thing  to  do,  he  used  to  go  out  early  in 
the  morning  when  the  stream  of  people  poured  out  of  the  resi- 
dential streets  on  their  way  to  their  work,  or  in  the  evening, 
when  they  were  returning.  His  desire  was  to  plunge  into  the 
refreshing  bath  of  human  sympathy.  Not  that  he  spoke  to  a 
soul.  He  did  not  even  try  to  do  so.  It  was  enough  for  him  to 
watch  the  people  pass,  and  guess  what  they  were,  and  love  them. 
With  fond  pity  he  used  to  watch  the  workers  hurrying  along, 
all,  as  it  were,  already  worn  out  by  the  business  of  the  day, 
— young  jnen  and  girls,  with  pale  faces,  worn  expressions,  and 
strange  smiles, — thin,  eager  faces  beneath  which  there  passed 
desires  and  anxieties,  all  with  a  changing  irony, — all  so  in- 
telligent, too  intelligent,  a  little  morbid,  the  dwellers  in  a  great 
city.  They  all  hurried  along,  the  men  reading  the  papers,  the 
women  nibbling  and  munching.  Christophe  would  have  given 
a  month  of  his  life  to  let  one  poor  girl,  whose  eyes  were  swol- 
len with  sleep,  who  passed  near  him  with  a  little  nervous, 
mincing  walk,  sleep  on  for  a  few  hours  more.  Oh!  how  she 
would  have  jumped  at  it,  if  she  had  been  offered  the  chancel 


186  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

He  would  have  loved  to  pluck  all  the  idle  rich  people  out  of 
their  rooms,  hermetically  sealed  at  that  hour,  where  they  were 
so  ungratefully  lying  at  their  ease,  and  replace  them  in  their 
beds,  in  their  comfortable  existence,  with  all  these  eager,  weary 
bodies,  these  fresh  souls,  not  abounding  with  life,  but  alive  and 
greedy  of  life.  In  that  hour  he  was  full  of  kindness  towards 
them:  and  he  smiled  at  their  alert,  thin  little  faces,  in  which 
there  were  cunning  and  ingenuousness,  a  bold  and  simple  desire 
for  pleasure,  and,  behind  all,  honest  little  souls,  true  and  in- 
dustrious. And  he  was  not  hurt  when  some  of  the  girls  laughed 
in  his  face,  or  nudged  each  other  to  point  out  the  strange 
young  man  staring  at  them  so  hard. 

And  he  would  lounge  about  the  riverside,  lost  in  dreams. 
That  was  his  favorite  walk.  It  did  a  little  satisfy  his  longing 
for  the  great  river  that  had  sung  the  lullaby  of  his  childhood. 
Ah!  it  wa's  not  Vater  Rhein!  It  had  none  of  his  all-puissant 
might:  none  of  the  wide  horizons,  vast  plains  over  which  the 
mind  soars  and  is  lost.  A  river  with  gray  eyes,  gowned  in 
pale  green,  with  finely  drawn,  correct  features,  a  graceful 
river,  with  supple  movements,  wearing  with  sparkling  non- 
chalance the  sumptuous  and  sober  garb  of  her  city,  the  brace- 
lets of  its  bridges,  the  necklets  of  its  monuments,  and  smiling 
at  her  own  prettiness,  like  a  lovely  woman  strolling  through 
the  town.  .  .  .  The  delicious  light  of  Paris!  That  was 
the  first  thing  that  Christophe  had  loved  in  the  city:  it  filled 
his  being  sweetly,  sweetly :  and  imperceptibly,  slowly,  it  changed 
his  heart.  It  was  to  him  the  most  lovely  music,  the  only 
music  in  Paris.  He  would  spend  hours  in  the  evening  walk- 
ing by  the  river,  or  in  the  gardens  of  old  France,  tasting  the 
harmonies  of  the  light  of  day  touching  the  tall  trees  bathed  in 
purple  mist,  the  gray  statues  and  ruins,  the  worn  stones  of 
the  royal  monuments  which  had  absorbed  the  light  of  cen- 
turies,— that  smooth  atmosphere,  made  of  pale  sunshine  and 
milky  vapor,  in  which,  on  a  cloud  of  silvery  dust,  there  floats 
the  laughing  spirit  of  the  race. 

One  evening  he  was  leaning  over  the  parapet  near  the  Saint- 


THE  MAKKET-PLACE  187 

Michel  Bridge,  and  looking  at  the  water  and  absently  turning 
over  the  books  in  one  of  the  little  boxes.  He  chanced  upon 
a  battered  old  volume  of  Michelet  and  opened  it  at  random. 
He  had  already  read  a  certain  amount  of  that  historian,  and 
had  been  put  off  by  his  Gallic  boasting,  his  trick  of  making 
himself  drunk  with  words,  and  his  halting  style.  But  that 
evening  he  was  held  from  the  very  first  words :  he  had  lighted 
on  the  trial  of  Joan  of  Arc.  He  knew  the  Maid  of  Orleans 
through  Schiller:  but  hitherto  she  had  only  been  a  romantic 
heroine  who  had  been  endowed  with  an  imaginary  life  by  a 
great  poet.  Suddenly  the  reality  was  presented  to  him  and 
gripped  his  attention.  He  read  on  and  on,  his  heart  aching 
for  the  tragic  horror  of  the  glorious  story:  and  when  he  came 
to  the  moment  when  Joan  learns  that  she  is  to  die  that  evening 
and  faints  from  fear,  his  hands  began  to  tremble,  tears  came 
into  his  eyes,  and  he  had  to  stop.  He  was  weak  from  his  ill- 
ness: he  had  become  absurdly  sensitive,  and  was  himself  ex- 
asperated by  it. — When  he  turned  once  more  to  the  book  it  was 
late  and  the  bookseller  was  shutting  up  his  boxes.  He  de- 
cided to  buy  the  book  and  hunted  through  his  pockets:  he  had 
exactly  six  sous.  Such  scantiness  was  not  rare  and  did  not 
bother  him :  he  had  paid  for  his  dinner,  and  counted  on  getting 
some  money  out  of  Hecht  next  day  for  some  copying  he  had 
done.  But  it  was  hard  to  have  to  wait  a  day!  Why  had  he 
spent  all  he  had  on  his  dinner?  Ah!  if  only  he  could  offer 
the  bookseller  the  bread  and  sausages  that  were  in  his  pockets, 
in  payment ! 

Next  morning,  very  early,  he  went  to  Hecht's  to  get  his 
money:  but  as  he  was  passing  the  bridge  which  bears  the 
name  of  the  archangel  of  battle — "  the  brother  in  Paradise  "  of 
Joan  of  Arc — he  could  not  help  stopping.  He  found  the 
precious  book  once  more  in  the  bookseller's  box,  and  read 
it  right  through:  he  stayed  reading  it  for  nearly  two  hours 
and  missed  his  appointment  with  Hecht:  and  he  wasted  the 
whole  day  waiting  to  see  him.  At  last  he  managed  to  get  his 
new  commission  and  the  money  for  the  old.  At  once  he  rushed 


188  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

back  to  buy  the  book,  although  he  had  read  it.  He  was  afraid 
it  might  have  been  sold  to  another  purchaser.  No  doubt  that 
would  not  have  mattered  much :  it  was  quite  easy  to  get  another 
copy:  but  Christophe  did  not  know  whether  the  book  was  rare 
or  not :  and  besides,  he  wanted  that  particular  book  and  no  other. 
Those  who  love  books  easily  become  fetish  worshipers.  The 
pages  from  which  the  well  of  dreams  springs  forth  are  sacred 
to  them,  even  when  they  are  dirty  and  spotted. 

In  the  silence  of  the  night,  in  his  room,  Christophe  read 
once  more  the  Gospel  of  the  Passion  of  Joan  of  Arc:  and 
now  there  was  nothing  to  make  him  restrain  his  emotion.  He 
was  filled  with  tenderness,  pity,  infinite  sorrow  for  the  poor 
little  shepherdess  in  her  coarse  peasant  clothes,  tall,  shy,  soft- 
voiced,  dreaming  to  the  sound  of  bells — (she  loved  them  as  he 
did) — with  her  lovely  smile,  full  of  understanding  and  kind- 
ness, and  her  tears,  that  flowed  so  readily — tears  of  love,  tears 
of  pity,  tears  of  weakness:  for  she  was  at  once  so  manlike  and 
so  much  a  woman,  the  pure  and  valiant  girl,  who  tamed  the 
savage  lusts  of  an  army  of  bandits,  and  calmly,  with  her  in- 
trepid sound  good  sense,  her  woman's  subtlety,  and  her  gentle 
persistency,  alone,  betrayed  on  all  hands,  for  months  together 
foiled  the  threats  and  hypocritical  tricks  of  a  gang  of  church- 
men and  lawyers, — wolves  and  foxes  with  bloody  eyes  and  fangs 
— who  closed  a  ring  about  her. 

What  touched  Christophe  most  nearly  was  her  kindness, 
her  tenderness  of  heart, — weeping  after  her  victories,  weeping 
over  her  dead  enemies,  over  those  who  had  insulted  her,  giving 
them  consolation  when  they  were  wounded,  aiding  them  in 
death,  knowing  no  bitterness  against  those  who  sold  her,  and 
even  at  the  stake,  when  the  flames  roared  about  her,  thinking 
not  of  herself,  thinking  only  of  the  monk  who  exorcised  her, 
and  compelling  him  to  depart.  She  was  "gentle  in  the  most 
bitter  fight,  good  even  amongst  the  most  evil,  peaceful  even 
in  war.  Into  war,  the  triumph  of  Satan,  she  brought  the  very 
Spirit  of  God." 

And  Christophe,  thinking  of  himself,  said: 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  189 

"  And  into  my  fight  I  have  not  brought  enough  of  the  Spirit 
of  God." 

He  read  the  fine  words  of  the  evangelist  of  Joan  of  Arc: 

"  Be  kind,  and  seek  always  to  be  kinder,  amid  all  the  in- 
justice of  men  and  the  hardships  of  Fate.  ...  Be  gentle 
and  of  a  good  countenance  even  in  bitter  quarrels,  win  through 
experience,  and  never  let  it  harm  that  inward  treasure.  ..." 

And  he  said  within  himself: 

"  I  have  sinned.  I  have  not  been  kind.  I  have  not  shown 
good-will  towards  men.  I  have  been  too  hard. — Forgive  me. 
Do  not  think  me  your  enemy,  you  against  whom  I  wage  war! 
For  you  too  I  seek  to  do  good.  .  .  .  But  you  must  be  kept 
from  doing  evil.  ..." 

And,  as  he  was  no  saint,  the  thought  of  them  was  enough 
to  kindle  his  anger  again.  What  he  could  least  forgive  them 
was  that  when  he  saw  them,  and  saw  France,  through  them, 
he  found  it  impossible  to  conceive  such  a  flower  of  purity 
and  poetic  heroism  ever  springing  from  such  a  soil.  And  yet 
it  was  so.  Who  could  say  that  such  a  flower  would  not 
spring  from  it  a  second  time?  The  France  of  to-day  could  not 
be  worse  than  that  of  Charles  VII,  the  debauched  and  pros- 
tituted nation  from  which  the  Maid  sprang.  The  temple  was 
empty,  fouled,  half  in  ruins.  No  matter!  God  had  spoken 
in  it. 

Christophe  was  seeking  a  Frenchman  whom  he  could  love 
for  the  love  of  France. 

It  was  about  the  end  of  March.  For  months  Christophe 
had  not  spoken  to  a  soul  nor  had  a  single  letter,  except  every 
now  and  then  a  few  lines  from  his  mother,  who  did  not  know 
that  he  was  ill  and  did  not  tell  him  that  she  herself  was  ill. 
His  relation  with  the  outside  world  was  confined  to  his  journeys 
to  the  music  shop  to  take  or  bring  away  his  work.  He  ar- 
ranged to  go  there  at  times  when  he  knew  that  Hecht  would 
be  out — to  avoid  having  to  talk  to  him.  The  precaution  was 
superfluous,  for  the  only  time  he  met  Hecht,  he  hardly  did 
more  than  ask  him  a  few  indifferent  questions  about  his  health. 


190  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN.  PARIS 

He  was  immured  in  a  prison  of  silence  when,  one  morning, 
he  received  an  invitation  from  Madame  Roussin  to  a  musical 
soiree :  a  famous  quartet  was  to  play.  The  letter  was  very  friendly 
in  tone,  and  Roussin  had  added  a  few  cordial  lines.  He  was 
not  very  proud  of  his  quarrel  with  Christophe:  the  less  so  as 
he  had  since  quarreled  with  the  singer  and  now  condemned  her 
in  no  sparing  terms.  He  was  a  good  fellow :  he  never  bore 
those  whom  he  had  wronged  any  grudge.  And  he  would  have 
thought  it  preposterous  for  any  of  his  victims  to  be  more  thin- 
skinned  than  himself.  And  so,  when  he  had  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing them  again,  he  never  hesitated  about  holding  out  his  hand. 

Christophe's  first  impulse  was  to  shrug  his  shoulders  and 
vow  that  he  would  not  go.  But  he  wavered  as  the  day  of  the 
concert  came  nearer.  He  was  stifling  from  never  hearing  a 
human  voice  or  a  note  of  music.  But  he  vowed  again  that  he 
would  never  set  foot  inside  the  Roussins'  house.  But  when  the 
day  came  he  went,  raging  against  his  own  cowardice. 

He  was  ill  rewarded.  Hardly  did  he  find  himself  once  more 
in  the  gathering  of  politicians  and  snobs  than  he  was  filled 
with  an  aversion  for  them  more  violent  than  ever:  for  during 
his  months  of  solitude  he  had  lost  the  trick  of  such  people. 
It  was  impossible  to  hear  the  music :  it  was  a  profanation ;  Chris- 
tophe made  up  his  mind  to  go  as  soon  as  the  first  piece  was 
over. 

He  glanced  round  among  the  faces  of  those  people  who  were 
even  physically  so  antipathetic  to  him.  At  the  other  end  of 
the  room  he  saw  a  face,  the  face  of  a  young  man,  looking  at 
him,  and  then  he  turned  away  at  once.  There  was  in  the  face 
a  strange  quality  of  candor  which  among  such  bored,  indif- 
ferent people  was  most  striking.  The  eyes  were  timid,  but 
clear  and  direct.  French  eyes,  which,  once  they  marked  a 
man,  went  on  looking  at  him  with  absolute  truth,  hiding 
nothing  of  the  soul  behind  them,  missing  nothing  of  the  soul 
of  the  man  at  whom  they  gazed.  They  were  familiar  to  Chris- 
tophe. And  yet  he  did  not  know  the  face.  It  was  that  of  a 
young  man  between  twenty  and  twenty-five,  short,  slightly 


THE  MABKET-PLACE  M 

stooping,  delicate-looking,  beardless,  and  melancholy,  with  chest- 
nut hair,  irregular  features,  though  fine,  a  certain  crookedness 
which  gave  it  an  expression  not  so  much  of  uneasiness  as  of 
bashfulness,  which  was  not  without  charm,  and  seemed  to  con- 
tradict the  tranquillity  of  the  eyes.  He  was  standing  in  an  open 
door :  and  nobody  was  paying  any  attention  to  him.  Once  more 
Christophe  looked  at  him :  and  once  more  he  met  his  eyes, 
which  turned  away  timidly  with  a  delightful  awkwardness: 
once  more  he  "recognized"  them:  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  seen  them  in  another  face. 

Christophe,  as  usual,  was  incapable  of  concealing  what  he 
felt,  and  moved  towards  the  young  man:  but  as  he  made  his 
way  he  wondered  what  he  should  say  to  him :  and  he  hesitated 
and  stood  still  looking  to  right  and  left,  as  though  he  were 
moving  without  any  fixed  object.  But  the  young  man  was  not 
taken  in,  and  saw  that  Christophe  was  moving  towards  him- 
self: he  was  so  nervous  at  the  thought  of  speaking  to  him 
that  he  tried  to  slip  into  the  next  room :  but  he  was  glued  to 
his  place  by  his  very  bashfulness.  So  they  came  face  to  face. 
It  was  some  moments  before  they  could  find  anything  to  say. 
And  as  they  went  on  standing  like  that  each  thought  the  other 
must  think  him  absurd.  At  last  Christophe  looked  straight 
at  the  young  man,  and  said  with  a  smile,  in  a  gruff  voice : 

"You're  not  a  Parisian?" 

In  spite  of  his  embarrassment  the  young  man  smiled  at  this 
unexpected  question,  and  replied  in  the  negative.  His  light 
voice,  with  its  hint  of  a  musical  quality,  was  like  some  delicate 
instrument. 

"  I  thought  not,"  said  Christophe.  And,  as  he  saw  that  he 
was  a  little  confused  by  the  singular  remark,  he  added: 

"  It  is  no  reproach." 

But  the  young  man's  embarrassment  was  only  in- 
creased. 

There  was  another  silence.  The  young  man  made  an  effort 
to  speak:  his  lips  trembled:  it  seemed  that  he  had  a  sentence 
on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 


192  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

speak  it.  Christophe  eagerly  studied  his  mobile  face,  the 
muscles  of  which  he  could  see  twitching  under  the  clear  skin: 
he  did  not  seem  to  be  of  the  same  clay  as  the  people  all  about 
him  in  the  room,  with  their  heavy,  coarse  faces,  which  were  only 
a  continuation  of  their  necks,  part  and  parcel  of  their  bodies. 
In  the  young  man's  face  the  soul  shone  forth :  in  every  part  of  it 
there  was  a  spiritual  life. 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  speak.  Christophe  went  on 
genially : 

"  What  are  you  doing  among  all  these  people  ?  " 

He  spoke  out  loud  with  that  strange  freedom  of  manner 
which  made  him  hated.  His  friend  blushed  and  could  not 
help  looking  round  to  see  if  he  had  been  heard:  and  Chris- 
tophe disliked  the  movement.  Then,  instead  of  answering, 
he  asked  with  a  shy,  sweet  smile: 

"And  you?" 

Christophe  began  to  laugh  as  usual,  rather  loudly. 

"  Yes.     And  I,"  he  said  delightedly. 

The  young  man  at  last  summoned  up  his  courage. 

"  I  love  your  music  so  much ! "  he  said,  in  a  choking  voice. 

Then  he  stopped  and  tried  once  more,  vainly,  to  get  the 
better  of  his  shyness.  He  was  blushing,  and  knew  it:  and  he 
blushed  the  more,  up  to  his  temples  and  round  to  his  ears. 
Christophe  looked  at  him  with  a  smile,  and  longed  to  take  him 
in  his  arms.  The  young  man  looked  at  him  timidly. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  Of  course,  I  can't  ...  I  can't  talk  about 
that  .  .  .  not  here.  ..." 

Christophe  took  his  hand  with  a  grin.  He  felt  the  stranger's 
thin  fingers  tremble  in  his  great  paw  and  press  it  with  an  in- 
voluntary tenderness :  and  the  young  man  felt  Christophe's  paw 
affectionately  crush  his  hand.  They  ceased  to  hear  the  chatter 
of  the  people  round  them.  They  were  alone  together  and  they 
knew  that  they  were  friends. 

It  was  only  for  a  second,  for  then  Madame  Roussin  touched 
Christophe  on  the  arm  with  her  fan  and  said : 

"I  see  that  you  have  introduced  yourselves  and  don't  need 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  193 

me  to  do  so.  The  boy  came  on  purpose  to  meet  you  this 
evening." 

Then,  rather  awkwardly,  they  parted. 

Christophe  asked  Madame  Koussin: 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  What? "  said  she.  "You  don't  know  him?  He  is  a  young 
poet  and  writes  very  prettily.  One  of  your  admirers.  He  is  a 
good  musician  and  plays  the  piano  quite  nicely.  It  is  no  good 
discussing  you  in  his  presence:  he  is  mad  about  you.  The 
other  day  he  all  but  came  to  blows  about  you  with  Lucien  Levy- 
Cceur." 

"  Oh !    Bless  him  for  that ! "  said  Christophe. 

"Yes,  I  know  you  are  unjust  to  poor  Lucien.  And  yet  he 
too  loves  your  work." 

"  Ah !  don't  tell  me  that !    I  should  hate  myself." 

"  It  is  so,  I  assure  you." 

"  Never !  never !    I  will  not  have  it.    I  forbid  him  to  do  so." 

"  Just  what  your  admirer  said.  You  are  both  mad.  Lucien 
was  just  explaining  one  of  your  compositions  to  us.  The  shy 
boy  you  met  just  now  got  up,  trembling  with  anger,  and  for- 
bade him  to  mention  your  name.  Think  of  it !  .  .  .  For- 
tunately I  was  there.  I  laughed  it  off:  Lucien  did  the  same: 
and  the  boy  was  utterly  confused  and  relapsed  into  silence :  and 
in  the  end  he  apologized." 

"  Poor  boy !  "  said  Christophe. 

.He  was  touched  by  it. 

"  Where  did  he  go  ?  "  he  asked,  without  listening  to  Madame 
Eoussin,  who  had  already  begun  to  talk  about  something  else. 

He  went  to  look  for  him.  But  his  unknown  friend  had  dis- 
appeared. Christophe  returned  to  Madame  Eoussin: 

"  Tell  me,  what  is  his  name  ?  " 

"Who?"  she  asked. 

"The  boy  you  were  talking  about  just  now." 

"  Your  young  poet  ? "  she  said.  "  His  name  is  Olivier 
Jeannin." 

The  name  rang  in   Christophe's  ears  like  some  familiar 


194  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAKIS 

melody.  The  shadowy  figure  of  a  girl  floated  for  a  moment 
before  his  eyes.  But  the  new  image,  the  image  of  his  friend 
blotted  it  out  at  once. 

Christophe  went  home.  He  strode  through  the  streets  of 
Paris  mingling  with  the  throng.  He  saw  nothing,  heard 
nothing;  he  was  insensible  to  everything  about  him.  He  was 
like  a  lake  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  by  a  ring  of 
mountains.  Not  a  breath  stirred,  not  a  sound  was  heard,  all 
was  still.  Peace.  He  said  to  himself  over  and  over  again: 

"I  have  a  friend." 


ANTOINETTE 


THE  Jeannins  were  one  of  those  old  French  families  who 
have  remained  stationary  for  centuries  in  the  same  little  cor- 
ner of  a  province,  and  have  kept  themselves  pure  from  any  in- 
fusion of  foreign  blood.  There  are  more  of  them  than  one 
would  think  in  France,  in  spite  of  all  the  changes  in  the  social 
order :  it  would  need  a  great  upheaval  to  uproot  them  from  the 
soil  to  which  they  are  held  by  so  many  ties,  the  profound 
nature  of  which  is  unknown  to  them.  Reason  counts  for 
nothing  in  their  devotion  to  the  soil,  and  interest  for  very 
little :  and  as  for  sentimental  historic  memories,  they  only  hold 
good  for  a  few  literary  men.  What  does  bind  them  irresistibly 
is  the  obscure  though  very  strong  feeling,  common  to  the  dull, 
and  the  intelligent  alike,  of  having  been  for  centuries  past  a 
parcel  of  the  land,  of  living  in  its  life,  breathing  the  same  air, 
hearing  the  heart  of  it  beating  against  their  own,  like  the  heart 
of  the  beloved,  feeling  its  slightest  tremor,  the  changing  hours 
and  seasons  and  days,  bright  or  dull,  and  hearing  the  voices  and 
the  silence  of  all  things  in  Nature.  It  is  not  always  the  most 
beautiful  country,  nor  that  which  has  the  greatest  charm  of  life, 
that  most  strongly  grips  the  affections,  but  rather  it  is  the 
region  where  the  earth  seems  simplest  and  most  humble,  nearest 
man,  speaking  to  him  in  a  familiar  friendly  tongue. 

Such  was  the  country  in  the  center  of  France  where  the 
Jeannins  lived.  A  flat,  damp  country,  an  old  sleepy  little  town, 
wearily  gazing  at  its  reflection  in  the  dull  waters  of  a  still 
canal :  round  about  it  were  monotonous  fields,  plowed  fields, 
meadows,  little  rivers,  woods,  and  again  monotonous  fields.  .  .  . 
No  scenery,  no  monuments,  no  memories.  Nothing  attractive. 
It  is  all  dull  and  oppressive.  In  its  drowsy  torpor  is  a  hidden 

197 


198  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

force.  The  soul  tasting  it  for  the  first  time  suffers  and  revolts 
against  it.  But  those  who  have  lived  with  it  for  generations 
cannot  break  free:  it  eats  into  their  very  bones:  and  the  still- 
ness of  it,  the  harmonious  dullness,  the  monotony,  have  a  charm 
for  them  and  a  sweet  savor  which  they  cannot  analyze,  which 
they  malign,  love,  and  can  never  forget. 

The  Jeannins  had  always  lived  there.  The  family  could 
be  traced  back  to  the  sixteenth  century,  living  in  the  town  or 
its  neighborhood :  for  of  course  they  had  a  great-uncle  who  had 
devoted  his  life  to  drawing  up  the  genealogical  tree  of  their 
obscure  line  of  humble,  industrious  people:  peasants,  farmers, 
artisans,  then  clerks,  country  notaries,  working  in  the  sub- 
prefecture  of  the  district,  where  Augustus  Jeannin,  the  father 
of  the  present  head  of  the  house,  had  successfully  established 
himself  as  a  banker :  he  was  a  clever  man,  with  a  peasant's  cun- 
ning and  obstinacy,  but  honest  as  men  go,  not  over-scrupulous, 
a  great  worker,  and  a  good  liver :  he  had  made  himself  respected 
and  feared  everywhere  by  his  genial  malice,  his  bluntness  of 
speech,  and  his  wealth.  Short,  thick-set,  vigorous,  with  little 
sharp  eyes  set  in  a  big  red  face,  pitted  with  smallpox,  he  had 
been  known  as  a  petticoat-hunter:  and  he  had  not  altogether 
lost  his  taste  for  it.  He  loved  a  spicy  yarn  and  good  eating. 
It  was  a  sight  to  see  him  at  meals,  with  his  son  Antoine  sitting 
opposite  him,  with  a  few  old  friends  of  their  kidney :  the  district 
judge,  the  notary,  the  Archdeacon  of  the  Cathedral: — (old 
Jeannin  loved  stuffing  the  priest:  but  also  he  could  stuff  with 
the  priest,  if  the  priest  were  good  at  it)  : — hearty  old  fellows 
built  on  the  same  Rabelaisian  lines.  There  was  a  running  fire 
of  terrific  stories  to  the  accompaniment  of  thumps  on  the  table 
and  roars  of  laughter,  and  the  row  they  made  could  be  heard 
by  the  servants  in  the  kitchen  and  the  neighbors  in  the  street. 

Then  old  Augustus  caught  a  chill,  which  turned  to  pneu- 
monia, through  going  down  into  his  cellars  one  hot  summer's 
day  in  his  shirt-sleeves  to  bottle  his  wine.  In  less  than  twenty- 
four  hours  he  had  departed  this  life  for  the  next  world,  in. 


ANTOINETTE  199 

winch  he  hardly  believed,  properly  equipped  with  all  the  Sacra- 
ments of  the  Church,  having,  like  a  good  Voltairian  provincial, 
submitted  to  it  at  the  last  moment  in  order  to  pacify  his  women, 
and  also  because  it  did  not  matter  one  way  or  the  other.  .  .  . 
And  then,  one  never  knows.  .  .  . 

His  son  Antoine  succeeded  him  in  business.  He  was  a  fat 
little  man,  rubicund  and  expansive,  clean-shaven,  except  for 
his  mutton-chop  whiskers,  and  he  spoke  quickly  and  with  a 
slight  stutter,  in  a  loud  voice,  accompanying  his  remarks  with 
little  quick,  curt  gestures.  He  had  not  his  father's  grasp  of 
finance:  but  he  was  quite  a  good  manager.  He  had  only  to 
look  after  the  established  undertakings,  which  went  on  de- 
veloping day  by  day,  by  the  mere  fact  of  their  existence.  He 
had  the  advantage  of  a  business  reputation  in  the  district,  al- 
though he  had  very  little  to  do  with  the  success  of  the  firm's 
ventures.  He  only  contributed  method  and  industry.  For  the 
rest  he  was  absolutely  honorable,  and  was  everywhere  deservedly 
esteemed.  His  pleasant  unctuous  manners,  though  perhaps  a 
little  too  familiar  for  some  people,  a  little  too  expansive,  and 
just  a  little  common,  had  won  him  a  very  genuine  popularity  in 
the  little  town  and  the  surrounding  country.  He  was  more 
lavish  with  his  sympathy  than  with  his  money :  tears  came  read- 
ily to  his  eyes :  and  the  sight  of  poverty  so  sincerely  moved  him 
that  the  victim  of  it  could  not  fail  to  be  touched  by  it. 

Like  most  men  living  in  small  towns,  his  thoughts  were 
much  occupied  with  politics.  He  was  an  ardent  moderate  Re- 
publican, an  intolerant  Liberal,  a  patriot,  and,  like  his  father, 
extremely  anti-clerical.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Municipal 
Council:  and,  like  the  rest  of  his  colleagues,  he  delighted  in 
playing  tricks  on  the  cure  of  the  parish,  or  on  the  Lent  preacher, 
who  roused  so  much  enthusiasm  in  the  ladies  of  the  town.  It 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  anti-clericalism  of  the  little 
towns  in  France  is  always,  more  or  less,  an  episode  in  domestic 
warfare,  and  is  a  subtle  form  of  that  silent,  bitter  struggle 
between  husbands  and  wives,  which  goes  on  in  almost  every 
house. 


200  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

Antoine  Jeannin  had  also  some  literary  pretensions.  Like 
all  provincials  of  his  generation,  he  had  been  brought  up  on  the 
Latin  Classics,  many  pages  of  which  he  knew  by  heart,  and 
also  a  mass  of  proverbs,  and  on  La  Fontaine  and  Boileau, — the 
Boileau  of  L'Art  Poetique,  and,  above  all,  of  Lutrin, — on  the 
author  of  La,  Pucdle,  and  the  poctee  minor es  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  in  whose  manner  he  squeezed  out  a  certain  number  of 
poems.  He  was  not  the  only  man  of  his  acquaintance  pos- 
sessed by  that  particular  mania,  and  his  reputation  gained  by  it. 
His  rhyming  jests,  his  quatrains,  couplets,  acrostics,  epigrams, 
and  songs,  which  were  sometimes  rather  risky,  though  they  had 
a  certain  coarsely  witty  quality,  were  often  quoted.  He  was 
wont  to  sing  the  mysteries  of  digestion:  the  Muse  of  the  Loire 
districts  is  fain  to  blow  her  trumpet  like  the  famous  devil  of 
Dante : 

"...  Ed  egli  avea  del  cul  fatto  tronibetta." 

This  sturdy,  jovial,  active  little  man  had  taken  to  wife  a 
woman  of  a  very  different  character, — the  daughter  of  a  coun- 
try magistrate,  Lucie  de  Villiers.  The  De  Villiers — or  rather 
Devilliers,  for  their  name  had  split  in  its  passage  through  time, 
like  a  stone  which  cracks  in  two  as  it  goes  hurtling  down  a  hill- 
side— were  magistrates  from  father  to  son;  they  were  of  that 
old  parliamentary  race  of  Frenchmen  who  had  a  lofty  idea  of 
the  law,  and  duty,  the  social  conventions,  their  personal,  and 
especially  their  professional,  dignity,  which  was  fortified  by 
perfect  honesty,  tempered  with  a  certain  conscious  uprightness. 
During  the  preceding  century  they  had  been  infected  by  non- 
conformist Jansenism,  which  had  given  them  a  grumbling  pessi- 
mistic quality,  as  well  as  a  contempt  for  the  Jesuit  attitude  of 
mind.  They  did  not  see  life  as  beautiful :  and,  rather  than 
smooth  away  life's  difficulties,  they  preferred  to  exaggerate 
them  so  as  to  have  good  reason  to  complain.  Lucie  de  Villiers 
had  certain  of  these  characteristics,  which  were  so  directly  op- 
posed to  the  not  very  refined  optimism  of  her  husband.  She 
was  tall — taller  than  he  by  a  head — slender,  well  made;  she 
dressed  well  and  elegantly,  though  in  a  rather  sober  fashion, 


ANTOINETTE  201 

which  made  her  seem — perhaps  designedly — older  than  she  was : 
she  was  of  a  high  moral  quality:  but  she  was  hard  on  other 
people;  she  would  countenance  no  fault,  and  hardly  even  a 
caprice:  she  was  thought  cold  and  disdainful.  She  was  very 
pious,  and  that  gave  rise  to  perpetual  disputes  with  her  hus- 
band. For  the  rest,  they  were  very  fond  of  each  other:  and, 
in  spite  of  their  frequent  disagreements,  they  could  not  have 
lived  without  each  other.  They  were  both  rather  unpractical: 
he  from  want  of  perception — (he  was  always  in  danger  of  being 
taken  in  by  good  looks  and  fine  words), — she  from  her  ab- 
solute inexperience  of  business — (she  knew  nothing  about  it: 
and  having  always  been  kept  outside  it,  she  took  no  interest 
in  it). 

They  had  two  children:  a  girl,  Antoinette,  the  elder  by 
five  years ;  and  a  boy,  Olivier. 

Antoinette  was  a  pretty  dark-haired  child,  with  a  charming, 
honest  face  of  the  French  type,  round,  with  sharp  eyes,  a  round 
forehead,  a  fine  chin,  a  little  straight  nose — "  one  of  those  very 
pretty,  fine,  noble  noses"  (as  an  old  French  portrait-painter 
says  so  charmingly)  "  in  which  there  was  a  certain  imper- 
ceptible play  of  expression,  which  animated  the  face,  and  re- 
vealed the  subtlety  of  the  workings  of  her  mind  as  she  talked 
or  listened."  She  had  her  father's  gaiety  and  carelessness. 

Olivier  was  a  delicate  fair  boy,  short,  like  his  father,  but 
very  different  in  character.  His  health  had  been  undermined 
by  one  illness  after  another  when  he  was  a  child :  and  although, 
as  a  result,  he  was  petted  by  his  family,  his  physical  weakness 
had  made  him  a  melancholy,  dreamy  little  boy,  who  was  afraid 
of  death  and  very  poorly  equipped  for  life.  He  was  shy,  and 
preferred  to  be  alone :  he  avoided  the  society  of  other  children : 
he  was  ill  at  ease  with  them :  he  hated  their  games  and  quarrels : 
their  brutality  filled  him  with  horror.  He  let  them  strike  him, 
not  from  want  of  courage,  but  from  timidity,  because  he  was 
afraid  to  defend  himself,  afraid  of  hurting  them:  they  would 
have  bullied  the  life  out  of  him,  but  for  the  safeguard  of  his 


202  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

father's  position.  He  was  tender-hearted  and  morbidly  sensi- 
tive: a  word,  a  sign  of  sympathy,  a  reproach,  were  enough  to 
make  him  burst  into  tears.  His  sister  was  much  sturdier,  and 
laughed  at  him,  and  called  him  a  "  little  fountain." 

The  two  children  were  devoted  to  each  other:  but  they  were 
too  different  to  live  together.  They  went  their  own  ways  and 
lived  in  their  own  dreams.  As  Antoinette  grew  up,  she  became 
prettier:  people  told  her  so,  and  she  was  well  aware  of  it:  it 
made  her  happy,  and  she  wove  romances  about  the  future. 
Olivier,  in  his  sickly  melancholy,  was  always  rubbed  up  the 
wrong  way  by  contact  with  the  outer  world:  and  he  withdrew 
into  the  circle  of  his  own  absurd  little  brain:  and  he  told  him- 
self stories.  He  had  a  burning,  almost  feminine,  longing  to 
love  and  be  loved:  and,  living  alone,  away  from  boys  of  his 
own  age,  he  had  invented  two  or  three  imaginary  friends:  one 
was  called  Jean,  another  Etienne,  another  Frangois:  he  was 
always  with  them.  He  never  slept  well,  and  he  was  always 
dreaming.  In  the  morning,  when  he  was  lifted  out  of  bed,  he 
would  forget  himself,  and  sit  with  his  bare  legs  dangling 
down,  or  sometimes  with  two  stockings  on  one  leg.  He  would 
go  off  into  a  dream  with  his  hands  in  the  basin.  He  would 
forget  himself  at  his  desk  in  the  middle  of  writing  or  learning 
a  lesson :  he  would  dream  for  hours  on  end :  and  then  he  would 
suddenly  wake  up,  horrified  to  find  that  he  had  learned  nothing. 
At  dinner  he  was  abashed  if  any  one  spoke  to  him:  he  would 
reply  two  minutes  after  he  had  been  spoken  to :  he  would  forget 
what  he  was  going  to  say  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  He 
would  doze  off  to  the  murmuring  of  his  thoughts  and  the  familiar 
sensations  of  the  monotonous  provincial  days  that  marched  so 
slowly  by:  the  great  half -empty  house,  only  part  of  which  they 
occupied :  the  vast  and  dreadful  barns  and  cellars :  the  mysteri- 
ous closed  rooms,  the  fastened  shutters,  the  covered  furniture, 
veiled  mirrors,  and  the  chandeliers  wrapped  up:  the  old  fam- 
ily portraits  with  their  haunting  smiles :  the  Empire  engravings, 
with  their  virtuous,  suave  heroism:  Alcibiades  and  Socrates  in 
the  House  of  the  Courtezan,  Antiochus  and  Stratonice,  The  Story 


ANTOINETTE  203 

of  Epaminondas,  Belisarius  Begging.  .  .  .  Outside,  the  sound 
of  the  smith  shoeing  horses  in  the  smithy  opposite,  the  un- 
even clink  of  the  hammers  on  the  anvil,  the  snorting  of  the 
broken-winded  horses,  the  smell  of  the  scorched  hoofs,  the 
slapping  of  the  pats  of  the  washerwomen  kneeling  by  the  water, 
the  heavy  thuds  of  the  butcher's  chopper  next  door,  the  clatter 
of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  stones  of  the  street,  the  creaking  of 
a  pump,  or  the  drawbridge  over  the  canal,  the  heavy  barges 
laden  with  blocks  of  wood,  slowly  passing  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  drawn  along  by  a  rope :  the  little  tiled  courtyard,  with  a 
square  patch  of  earth,  in  which  two  lilac-trees  grew,  in  the 
middle  of  a  clump  of  geraniums  and  petunias :  the  tubs  of  laurel 
and  flowering  pomegranate  on  the  terrace  above  the  canal: 
sometimes  the  noise  of  a  fair  in  the  square  hard  by,  with  peas- 
ants in  bright  blue  smocks,  and  grunting  pigs.  .  .  .  And  on 
Sunday,  at  church,  the  precentor,  who  sang  out  of  tune,  and 
the  old  priest,  who  went  to  sleep  as  he  was  saying  Mass:  the 
family  walk  along  the  station  road,  where  all  the  time  he  had  to 
take  off  his  hat  politely  to  other  wretched  beings,  who  were  un- 
der the  sam%imp]?ession  of  the  necessity  of  going  for  a  walk  all 
together, — ujitil  at  last  they  reached  the  sunny  fields,  above 
which  larks. soared  invisible, — or  along  by  the  still  mirror  of 
the  canal,  on  both  sides  of  which  were  poplars  rustling  in 
line.  .  .  .  And  then  there  was  the  great  provincial  Sunday 
dinner,  when  they  went  on  and  on  eating  and  talking  about 
food  learnedly  and  with  gusto :  for  everybody  was  a  connoisseur : 
and,  in  the  provinces,  eating  is  the  chief  occupation,  the  first 
of  all  the  arts.  And  they  would  talk  business,  and  tell  spicy 
yarns,  and  every  now  and  then  discuss  their  neighbors'  illnesses, 
going  into  endless  detail.  .  .  .  And  the  little  boy,  sitting 
in  his  corner,  would  make  no  more  noise  than  a  little  mouse, 
pick  at  his  food,  eat  hardly  anything,  and  listen  with  all  his 
ears.  Nothing  escaped  him :  and  when  he  did  not  understand, 
his  imagination  supplied  the  deficiency.  He  had  that  singular 
gift,  which  is  often  to  be  remarked  in  the  children  of  old 
families  and  an  old  stock,  on  which  the  imprint  of  the  ages  is 


204  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

too  strongly  marked,  of  divining  thoughts,  which  have  never 
passed  through  their  minds  before,  and  are  hardly  compre- 
hensible to  them. — Then  there  was  the  kitchen,  where  bloody 
and  succulent  mysteries  were  concocted:  and  the  old  servant 
who  used  to  tell  him  frightful  and  droll  stories.  ...  At 
last  came  evening,  the  silent  flitting  of  the  bats,  the  terror  of 
the  monstrous  creatures  that  were  known  to  swarm  in  the  dark 
depths  of  the  old  house:  huge  rats,  enormous  hairy  spiders: 
and  he  would  say  his  prayers,  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  his  bed, 
and  hardly  know  what  he  was  saying:  the  little  cracked  bell  of 
the  convent  hard  by  would  sound  the  bed-time  of  the  nuns; — 
and  so  to  bed,  the  Island  of  Dreams.  .  .  . 

The  best  times  of  the  year  were  those  that  they  spent  in 
spring  and  autumn  at  their  country  house  some  miles  away 
from  the  town.  There  he  could  dream  at  his  ease :  he  saw  no- 
body. Like  most  of  the  children  of  their  class,  the  little  Jean- 
nins  were  kept  apart  from  the  common  children:  the  children 
of  servants  and  farmers,  who  inspired  them  with  fear  and  dis- 
gust. They  inherited  from  their  mother  an  aristocratic — or, 
rather,  essentially  middle-class — disdain  for  all  who  worked  with 
their  hands.  Olivier  would  spend  the  day  perched  up  in  the 
branches  of  an  ash  reading  marvelous  stories:  delightful  folk- 
lore, the  Tales  of  Musaeus,  or  Madame  d'Aulnoy,  or  the  Arabian 
Nights,  or  stories  of  travel.  For  he  had  that  strange  longing 
for  distant  lands,  "  those  oceanic  dreams,"  which  sometimes 
possess  the  minds  of  boys  in  the  little  provincial  towns 
of  France.  A  thicket  lay  between  the  house  and  himself,  and 
he  could  fancy  himself  very  far  away.  But  he  knew  that  he 
was  really  near  home,  and  was  quite  happy:  for  he  did  not  like 
straying  too  far  alone:  he  felt  lost  with  Nature.  Round  him 
the  wind  whispered  through  the  trees.  Through  the  leaves  that 
hid  his  nest  he  could  see  the  yellowing  vines  in  the  distance, 
and  the  meadows  where  the  straked  cows  were  at  pasture,  filling 
the  silence  of  the  sleeping  country-side  with  their  plaintive 
long-drawn  lowing.  The  strident  cocks  crowed  to  each  other 
from  farm  to  farm.  There  came  up  the  irregular  beat  of  the 


ANTOINETTE  205 

flails  in  the  barns.  The  fevered  life  of  myriads  of  creatures 
swelled  and  flowed  through  the  peace  of  inanimate  Nature.  Un- 
easily Olivier  would  watch  the  ever  hurrying  columns  of  the 
ants,  and  the  bees  big  with  their  booty,  buzzing  like  organ-pipes, 
and  the  superb  and  stupid  wasps  who  know  not  what  they  want 
— the  whole  world  of  busy  little  creatures,  all  seemingly  de- 
voured by  the  desire  to  reach  their  destination.  .  .  .  Where 
is  it?  They  do  not  know.  No  matter  where!  Somewhere. 
.  .  .  Olivier  was  fearful  amid  that  blind  and  hostile  world. 
He  would  start,  like  a  young  hare,  at  the  sound  of  a  pine-cone 
falling,  or  the  breaking  of  a  rotten  branch.  ...  He  would 
find  his  courage  again  when  he  heard  the  rattling  of  the  chains 
of  the  swing  at  the  other  end  of  the  garden,  where  Antoinette 
would  be  madly  swinging  to  and  fro. 

She,  too,  would  dream:  but  in  her  own  fashion.  She  would 
spend  the  day  prowling  round  the  garden,  eating,  watching, 
laughing,  picking  at  the  grapes  on  the  vines  like  a  thrush, 
secretly  plucking  a  peach  from  the  trellis,  climbing  a  plum- 
tree,  or  giving  it  a  little  surreptitious  shake  as  she  passed  to 
bring  down  a  rain  of  the  golden  mirabelles  which  melt  in  the 
mouth  like  scented  honey.  Or  she  would  pick  the  flowers,  al- 
though that  was  forbidden:  quickly  she  would  pluck  a  rose 
that  she  had  been  coveting  all  day,  and  run  away  with  it  to  the 
arbor  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  Then  she  would  bury  her  little 
nose  in  the  delicious  scented  flower,  and  kiss  it,  and  bite  it, 
and  suck  it:  and  then  she  would  conceal  her  booty,  and  hide 
it  in  her  bosom  between  her  little  breasts,  at  the  wonder  of 
whose  coming  she  would  gaze  in  eager  fondness.  .  .  .  And 
there  was  an  exquisite  forbidden  joy  in  taking  off  her  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  walking  bare-foot  on  the  cool  sand  of  the  paths, 
and  on  the  dewy  turf,  and  on  the  stones,  cold  in  the  shadow, 
burning  in  the  sun,  and  in  the  little  stream  that  ran  along  the 
outskirts  of  the  wood,  and  kissing  with  her  feet,  and  legs,  and 
knees,  water,  earth,  and  light.  Lying  in  the  shadow  of  the 
pines,  she  would  hold  her  hands  up  to  the  sun,  and  watch 
the  light  play  through  them,  and  she  would  press  her  lips 


206  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAKIS 

upon  the  soft  satin  skin  of  her  pretty  rounded  arms.  She  would 
make  herself  crowns  and  necklets  and  gowns  of  ivy-leaves  and 
oak-leaves :  and  she  would  deck  them  with  the  blue  thistles,  and 
barberry  and  little  pine-branches,  with  their  green  fruit:  and 
then  she  looked  like  a  little  savage  Princess.  And  she  would 
dance  for  her  own  delight  round  and  round  the  fountain:  and, 
with  arms  outstretched,  she  would  turn  and  turn  until  her  head 
whirled,  and  she  would  slip  down  on  the  lawn  and  bury  her 
face  in  the  grass,  and  shout  with  laughter  for  minutes  on  end, 
unable  to  stop  herself,  without  knowing  why. 

So  the  days  slipped  by  for  the  two  children,  within  hail  of 
each  other,  though  neither  ever  gave  a  thought  to  the  other, — 
except  when  it  would  suddenly  occur  to  Antoinette  to  play  a 
prank  on  her  brother,  and  throw  a  handful  of  pine-needles 
in  his  face,  or  shake  the  tree  in  which  he  was  sitting,  threat- 
ening to  make  him  fall,  or  frighten  him  by  springing  suddenly 
out  upon  him  and  yelling : 

"Ooh!     Ooh!   .    .    ." 

Sometimes  she  would  be  seized  by  a  desire  to  tease  him.  She 
would  make  him  come  down  from  his  tree  by  pretending  that 
her  mother  was  calling  him.  Then,  when  he  had  climbed  down, 
she  would  take  his  place  and  refuse  to  budge.  Then  Olivier 
would  whine  and  threaten  to  tell.  But  there  was  no  danger 
of  Antoinette  staying  in  the  tree  for  long:  she  could  not 
keep  still  for  two  minutes.  When  she  had  done  with  taunting 
Olivier  from  the  top  of  his  tree,  when  she  had  thoroughly 
infuriated  him  and  brought  him  almost  to  tears,  then  she 
would  slip  down,  fling  her  arms  round  him,  shake  him,  and 
laugh,  and  call  him  a  "  little  muff,"  and  roll  him  on  the  ground, 
and  rub  his  face  with  handfuls  of  grass.  He  would  try  to 
struggle:  but  he  was  not  strong  enough.  Then  he  would  lie 
still,  flat  on  his  black,  like  a  cockchafer,  with  his  thin  arms 
pinned  to  the  ground  by  Antoinette's  strong  little  hands:  and 
he  would  look  piteous  and  resigned.  Antoinette  could  not  resist 
that:  she  would  look  at  her  vanquished  prisoner,  and  burst  out 
laughing  and  kiss  him  suddenly,  and  let  him  go — not  without 


ANTOINETTE  207 

the  parting  attention  of  a  little  gag  of  fresh  grass  in  his  mouth : 
and  that  he  detested  most  of  all,  because  it  made  him  sick. 
And  he  would  spit  and  wipe  his  mouth,  and  storm  at  her,  while 
she  ran  away  as  hard  as  she  could,  pealing  with  laughter.  She 
was  always  laughing.  Even  when  she  was  asleep  she  laughed. 
Olivier,  lying  awake  in  the  next  room,  would  suddenly  start 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  stories  he  was  telling  himself,  at  the 
sound  of  the  wild  laughter  and  the  muttered  words  which  she 
would  speak  in  the  silence  of  the  night.  Outside,  the  trees 
would  creak  with  the  wind,  an  owl  would  hoot,  in  the  distant 
villages  and  the  farms  in  the  heart  of  the  woods  dogs  would 
bark.  In  the  dim  phosphorescence  of  the  night  Olivier  would 
see  the  dark,  heavy  branches  of  the  pines  moving  like  ghosts 
outside  his  window:  and  Antoinette's  laughter  would  comfort 
him. 

The  two  children  were  very  religious,  especially  Olivier. 
Their  father  used  to  scandalize  them  with  his  anti-clerical 
professions  of  faith,  but  he  did  not  interfere  with  them:  and, 
at  heart,  like  so  many  men  of  his  class  who  are  unbelievers, 
he  was  not  sorry  that  his  family  should  believe  for  him:  for 
it  is  always  good  to  have  allies  in  the  opposing  camp,  and  one 
is  never  sure  which  way  Fortune  will  turn.  He  was  a  Deist, 
and  he  reserved  the  right  to  summon  a  priest  when  the  time 
came,  as  his  father  had  done:  even  if  it  did  no  good,  it  could 
do  no  harm :  one  insures  against  fire,  even  if  one  has  no  reason 
to  believe  that  the  house  will  be  burned  down. 

Olivier  was  morbidly  inclined  towards  mysticism.  There 
were  times  when  he  doubted  whether  he  existed.  He  was 
credulous  and  soft-hearted,  and  needed  a  prop:  he  took  a 
sorrowful  delight  in  confession,  in  the  comfort  of  confiding  in 
the  invisible  Friend,  whose  arms  are  always  open  to  you,  to 
whom  you  can  tell  everything,  who  understands  and  forgives 
everything:  he  tasted  the  sweetness  of  the  waters  of  humility 
and  love,  from  which  the  soul  issues  pure,  cleansed,  and  com- 
forted. It  was  so  natural  to  him  to  believe,  that  he  could  not 


208  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

understand  how  any  one  could  doubt:  he  thought  people  did  so 
from  wickedness,  and  that  God  would  punish  them.  He  used 
to  pray  secretly  that  his  father  might  find  grace :  and  he  was 
delighted  when,  one  day,  as  they  went  into  a  little  country 
church,  he  saw  his  father  mechanically  make  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  The  stories  of  the  Gospel  were  mixed  up  in  his  mind 
with  the  marvelous  tales  of  Rubezahl,  and  Gracieuse  and  Per- 
cinet,  and  the  Caliph  Haroun-al-Raschid.  When  he  was  a  lit- 
tle boy  he  no  more  doubted  the  truth  of  the  one  than  the 
other.  And  just  as  he  was  not  sure  that  he  did  not  know 
Shacabac  of  the  cleft  lips,  and  the  loquacious  barber,  and  the 
little  hunchback  of  Casgar,  just  as  when  he  was  out  walking  he 
used  to  look  about  for  the  black  woodpecker  which  bears  in  its 
beak  the  magic  root  of  the  treasure-seeker,  so  Canaan  and  the 
Promised  Land  became  in  his  childish  imagination  certain 
regions  in  Burgundy  or  Berrichon.  A  round  hill  in  the  coun- 
try, with  a  little  tree,  like  a  shabby  old  feather,  at  the  summit, 
seemed  to  him  to  be  like  the  mountain  where  Abraham  had 
built  his  pyre.  A  large  dead  bush  by  the  edge  of  a  field  was  the 
Burning  Bush,  which  the  ages  had  put  out.  Even  when  he  was 
older,  and  his  critical  faculty  had  been  awakened,  he  loved  to 
feed  on  the  popular  legends  which  enshrined  his  faith:  and 
they  gave  him  so  much  pleasure,  though  he  no  longer  accepted 
them  implicitly,  that  he  would  amuse  himself  by  pretending  to 
do  so.  So  for  a  long  time  on  Easter  Saturday  he  would  look 
out  for  the  return  of  the  Easter  bells,  which  went  away  to 
Rome  on  the  Thursday  before,  and  would  come  floating  through 
the  air  with  little  streamers.  He  did  finally  admit  that  it  was 
not  true:  but  he  did  not  give  up  looking  skywards  when  he 
heard  them  ringing:  and  once — though  he  knew  perfectly  well 
that  it  could  not  be — he  fancied  he  saw  one  of  them  disappear- 
ing over  the  house  with  blue  ribbons. 

It  was  vitally  necessary  for  him  to  steep  himself  in  the  world 
of  legend  and  faith.  He  avoided  life.  He  avoided  himself. 
Thin,  pale,  puny,  he  suffered  from  being  so,  and  could  not 
bear  its  being  talked  about.  He  was  naturally  pessimistic, 


ANTOINETTE  209 

no  doubt  inheriting  it  from  his  mother,  and  his  pessimism  was 
fed  by  his  morbidity.  He  did  not  know  it:  thought  everybody 
must  be  like  himself:  and  the  queer  little  boy  of  ten,  instead 
of  romping  in  the  gardens  during  his  play-time,  used  to  shut 
himself  up  in  his  room,  and,  carefully  picking  his  words, 
wrote  his  will. 

He  used  to  write  a  great  deal.  Every  evening  he  used  labori- 
ously and  secretly  to  write  his  diary — he  did  not  know  why,  for 
he  had  nothing  to  say,  and  he  said  nothing  worth  saying.  Writ- 
ing was  an  inherited  mania  with  him,  the  age-old  itch  of  the 
French  provincial — the  old  indestructible  stock — who  every  day, 
until  the  day  of  his  death,  with  an  idiotic  patience  which  is  al- 
most heroic,  writes  down  in  detail  what  he  has  seen,  said,  done, 
heard,  eaten,  and  drunk.  For  his  own  pleasure,  entirely.  It 
is  not  for  other  eyes.  No  one  will  ever  read  it:  he  knows  that: 
he  never  reads  it  again  himself. 

Music,  like  religion,  was  for  Olivier  a  shelter  from  the  too 
vivid  light  of  day.  Both  brother  and  sister  were  born  musi- 
cians,— especially  Olivier,  who  had  inherited  the  gift  from  his 
mother.  Their  taste,  as  it  needed  to  be,  was  excellent.  There 
was  no  one  capable  of  forming  it  in  the  province,  where  no  music 
was  ever  heard  but  that  of  the  local  band,  which  played  nothing 
but  marches,  or — on  its  good  days — selections  from  Adolphe 
Adam,  and  the  church  organist  who  played  romanzas,  and  the 
exercises  of  the  young  ladies  of  the  town  who  strummed  a  few 
valses  and  polkas,  the  overture  to  the  Caliph  of  Bagdad,  la 
Chasse  du  Jeune  Henri,  and  two  or  three  sonatas  of  Mozart, 
always  the  same,  and  always  with  the  same  mistakes,  on  in- 
struments that  were  sadly  out  of  tune.  These  things  were  in- 
variably included  in  the  evening's  program  at  parties.  After 
dinner,  those  who  had  talent  were  asked  to  display  it:  at  first 
they  would  blush  and  refuse,  but  then  they  would  yield  to  the 
entreaties  of  the  assembled  company :  and  they  would  play  their 
stock  pieces  without  their  music.  Every  one  would  then  ad- 
mire the  artist's  memory  and  her  beautiful  touch. 


210  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

The  ceremony  was  repeated  at  almost  every  party,  and  the 
thought  of  it  would  altogether  spoil  the  children's  dinner. 
When  they  had  to  play  the  Voyage  en  Chine  of  Bazin,  or  their 
pieces  of  Weber  as  a  duet,  they  gave  each  other  confidence, 
and  were  not  very  much  afraid.  But  it  was  torture  to  them 
to  have  to  play  alone.  Antoinette,  as  usual,  was  the  braver 
of  the  two.  Although  it  bored  her  dreadfully, — as  she  knew 
that  there  was  no  way  out  of  it,  she  would  go  through  with  it, 
sit  at  the  piano  with  a  determined  air,  and  gallop  through  her 
rondo  at  breakneck  speed,  stumbling  over  certain  passages,  make 
a  hash  of  others,  break  off,  turn  her  head,  and  say,  with  a 
smile: 

"Oh!  I  can't  remember.  ..." 

Then  she  would  start  off  again  a  few  bars  farther  on,  and 
go  on  to  the  end.  And  she  would  make  no  attempt  to  conceal 
her  pleasure  at  having  finished:  and  when  she  returned  to  her 
chair,  amid  the  general  chorus  of  praise,  she  would  laugh  and 
say: 

"  I  made  such  a  lot  of  mistakes." 

But  Olivier  was  not  so  easy  to  handle.  He  could  not  bear 
making  a  show  of  himself  in  public,  and  being  "  the  observed  of 
all  observers."  It  was  bad  enough  for  him  to  have  to  speak  in 
company.  But  to  have  to  play,  especially  for  people  who  did 
not  like  music — (that  was  obvious  to  him) — for  people  whom 
music  actually  bored,  people  who  only  asked  him  to  play  as  a 
matter  of  habit,  seemed  to  him  to  be  neither  more  nor  less  than 
tyranny,  and  he  tried  vainly  to  revolt  against  it.  He  would 
refuse  obstinately.  Sometimes  he  would  escape  and  go  and 
hide  in  a  dark  room,  in  a  passage,  or  even  in  the  barn,  in 
spite  of  his  horror  of  spiders.  His  refusal  would  make  the 
guests  only  insist  the  more,  and  they  would  quiz  him:  and 
his  parents  would  sternly  order  him  to  play,  and  even  slap 
him  when  he  was  too  impudently  rebellious.  And  in  the  end  he 
always  had  to  play, — of  course  unwillingly  and  sulkily.  And 
then  he  would  suffer  agonies  all  night  because  he  had  played 


ANTOINETTE  211 

so  badly,  partly  from  vanity,  and  partly  from  his  very  genuine 
love  for  music. 

The  taste  of  the  little  town  had  not  always  been  so  banal. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  there  were  quite  good  chamber 
concerts  at  several  houses.  Madame  Jeannin  used  often  to 
speak  of  her  grandfather,  who  adored  the  violoncello,  and  used 
to  sing  airs  of  Gluck,  and  Dalayrac,  and  Berton.  There  was 
a  large  volume  of  them  in  the  house,  and  a  pile  of  Italian 
songs.  For  the  old  gentleman  was  like  M.  Andrieux,  of  whom 
Berlioz  said :  "  He  loved  Gluck."  And  he  added  bitterly :  "  He 
also  loved  Piccinni." — Perhaps  of  the  two  he  preferred  Pic- 
cinni.  At  all  events,  the  Italian  songs  were  in  a  large  majority 
in  her  grandfather's  collection.  They  had  been  Olivier's  first 
musical  nourishment.  Not  a  very  substantial  diet,  rather  like 
those  sweetmeats  with  which  provincial  children  are  stuffed: 
they  corrupt  the  palate,  destroy  the  tissues  of  the  stomach,  and 
there  is  always  a  danger  of  their  killing  the  appetite  for  more 
solid  nutriment.  But  Olivier  could  not  be  accused  of  greedi- 
ness. He  was  never  offered  any  more  solid  food.  Having  no 
bread,  he  was  forced  to  eat  cake.  And  so,  by  force  of  circum- 
stance, it  came  about  that  Cimarosa,  Paesiello,  and  Eossini  fed 
the  mystic,  melancholy  little  boy,  who  was  more  than  a  little 
intoxicated  by  his  draughts  of  the  Asti  spumante  poured  out 
for  him,  instead  of  milk,  by  these  bacchanalian  Satyrs,  and  the 
two  lively,  ingenuously,  lasciviously  smiling  Bacchante  of 
Naples  and  Catania — Pergolesi  and  Bellini. 

He  played  a  great  deal  to  himself,  for  his  own  pleasure.  He 
was  saturated  with  music.  He  did  not  try  to  understand  what 
he  was  playing,  but  gave  himself  up  to  it.  Nobody  ever  thought 
of  teaching  him  harmony,  and  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  learn 
it.  Science  and  the  scientific  mind  were  foreign  to  the  nature 
of  his  family,  especially  on  his  mother's  side.  All  the  lawyers, 
wits,  and  humanists  of  the  De  Villiers  were  baffled  by  any  sort 
of  problem.  It  was  told  of  a  member  of  the  family — a  distant 
cousin — as  a  remarkable  thing  that  he  had  found  a  post  in  the 
Bureau  des  Longitudes,  Ancl  it  was  furthe.r  told  how  he  had 


212  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

gone  mad.  The  old  provincial  middle-classes,  robust  and  posi- 
tive in  temper,  but  dull  and  sleepy  as  a  result  of  their  gigantic 
meals  and  the  monotony  of  their  lives,  are  very  proud  of  their 
common  sense :  they  have  so  much  faith  in  it  that  they  boast  that 
there  is  no  difficulty  which  cannot  be  resolved  by  it:  and  they 
are  never  very  far  from  considering  men  of  science  as  artists 
of  a  sort,  more  useful  than  the  others,  but  less  exalted,  be- 
cause at  least  artists  serve  no  useful  purpose,  and  there  is  a 
sort  of  distinction  about  their  lounging  existence. — (Besides, 
every  business  man  flatters  himself  that  he  might  have  been 
an  artist  if  he  had  cared  about  it.) — While  scientists  are  not 
far  from  being  manual  laborers, — (which  is  degrading), — just 
master-workmen  with  more  education,  though  they  are  a  little 
cracked :  they  are  mighty  fine  on  paper :  but  outside  their  arith- 
metic factories  they're  nobody.  They  would  not  be  much  use 
without  the  guidance  of  common-sense  people  who  have  some 
experience  of  life  and  business. 

Unfortunately,  it  is  not  proven  that  their  experience  of  life 
and  business  goes  so  far  as  these  people  like  to  think.  It  is 
only  a  routine,  ringing  the  changes  on  a  few  easy  cases.  If  any 
unforeseen  portion  arises,  in  which  they  have  to  decide  quickly 
and  vigorously,  they  are  always  disgruntled. 

Antoine  Jeannin  was  that  sort  of  man.  Everything  was  so 
nicely  adjusted,  and  his  business  jogged  along  so  comfortably 
in  its  place  in  the  life  of  the  province,  that  he  had  never  en- 
countered any  serious  difficulty.  He  had  succeeded  to  his 
father's  position  without  having  any  special  aptitude  for  the 
business:  and,  as  everything  had  gone  well,  he  attributed  it  to 
his  own  brilliant  talents.  He  loved  to  say  that  it  was  enough 
to  be  honest,  methodical,  and  to  have  common  sense :  and  he  in- 
tended handing  down  his  business  to  his  son,  without  any  more 
regard  for  the  boy's  tastes  than  his  father  had  had  for  his  own. 
He  did  not  do  anything  to  prepare  him  for  it.  He  let  his  chil- 
dren grow  up  as  they  liked,  so  long  as  they  were  good,  and, 
above  all,  happy :  for  he  adored  them.  And  so  the  two  children 
were  as  little  prepared  for  the  struggle  of  life  as  possible :  they 


ANTOINETTE  213 

were  like  hothouse  flowers.  But,  surely,  they  would  always  live 
like  that?  In  the  soft  provincial  atmosphere,  in  the  bosom  of 
their  wealthy,  influential  family,  with  a  kindly,  gay,  jovial 
father,  surrounded  by  friends,  one  of  the  leading  men  of  the 
district,  life  was  so  easy,  so  bright  and  smiling. 

Antoinette  was  sixteen.  Olivier  was  about  to  be  confirmed. 
His  mind  was  filled  with  all  kinds  of  mystic  dreams.  In  her 
heart  Antoinette  heard  the  sweet  song  of  new-born  hope  soaring, 
like  the  lark  in  April,  in  the  springtime  of  her  life.  It  was  a 
joy  to  her  to  feel  the  flowering  of  her  body  and  soul,  to  know 
that  she  was  pretty,  and  to  be  told  so.  Her  father's  immoderate 
praises  were  enough  to  turn  her  head. 

He  was  in  ecstasies  over  her:  he  delighted  in  her  little 
coquetries,  to  see  her  eying  herself  in  her  mirror,  to  watch 
her  little  innocent  tricks.  He  would  take  her  on  his  knees,  and 
tease  her  about  her  childish  love-affairs,  and  the  conquests  she 
had  made,  and  the  suitors  that  he  pretended  had  come  to  him 
a- wooing:  he  would  tell  her  their  names:  respectable  citizens, 
each  more  old  and  ugly  than  the  last.  And  she  would  cry  out  in 
horror,  and  break  into  rippling  laughter,  and  put  her  arms  about 
her  father's  neck,  and  press  her  cheek  close  to  his.  And  he 
would  ask  which  was  the  happy  man  of  her  choice :  was  it  the 
District  Attorney,  who,  the  Jeannins'  old  maid  used  to  say, 
was  as  ugly  as  the  seven  deadly  sins  ?  Or  was  it  the  fat  notary  ? 
And  she  would  slap  him  playfully  to  make  him  cease,  or  hold 
her  hand  over  his  mouth.  He  would  kiss  her  little  hands,  and 
jump  her  up  and  down  on  his  knees,  and  sing  the  old  song 

"  What  would  you,  pretty  maid  ? 
An  ugly  husband,  eh  ?  " 

And  she  would  giggle  and  tie  his  whiskers  under  his  chin, 
and  reply  with  the  refrain: 

"  A  handsome  husband  I, 
No  ugly  man,  madame." 

She  would  declare  her  intention  of  choosing  for  herself. 
She  knew  that  she  was,  or  would  be,  very  rich, — (her  father 


214  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

used  to  tell  her  so  at  every  turn) — she  was  a  "fine  catch." 
The  sons  of  the  distinguished  families  of  the  country  were  al- 
ready courting  her,  setting  a  wide  white  net  of  flattery  and 
cunning  snares  to  catch  the  little  silver  fish.  But  it  looked 
as  though  the  fish  would  elude  them  all:  for  Antoinette  saw 
all  their  tricks,  and  laughed  at  them :  she  was  quite  ready  to  be 
caught,  but  not  against  her  will.  She  had  already  made  up 
her  mind  to  marry. 

The  noble  family  of  the  district — (there  is  generally  one 
noble  family  to  every  district,  claiming  descent  from  the  ancient 
lords  of  the  province,  though  generally  its  origin  goes  no  farther 
back  than  some  purchaser  of  the  national  estates,  some  com- 
missary of  the  eighteenth  century,  or  some  Napoleonic  army- 
contractor) — the  Bonnivets,  who  lived  some  few  miles  away 
from  the  town,  in  a  castle  with  tall  towers  with  gleaming  slates, 
surrounded  by  vast  woods,  in  which  were  innumerable  fish- 
ponds, themselves  proposed  for  the  hand  of  Mademoiselle  Jean- 
nin.  Young  Bonnivet  was  very  assiduous  in  his  courtship  of 
Antoinette.  He  was  a  handsome  boy,  rather  stout  and  heavy 
for  his  age,  who  did  nothing  but  hunt  and  eat,  and  drink  and 
sleep :  he  could  ride,  dance,  had  charming  manners,  and  was  not 
more  stupid  than  other  young  men.  He  would  ride  into  the 
town,  or  drive  in  his  buggy  and  call  on  the  banker,  on  some 
business  pretext:  and  sometimes  he  would  bring  some  game  or  a 
bouquet  of  flowers  for  the  ladies.  He  would  seize  the  oppor- 
tunity to  pay  court  to  Antoinette.  They  would  walk  in  the 
garden  together.  He  would  pay  her  lumbering  compliments, 
and  pull  his  mustache,  and  make  jokes,  and  make  his  spurs 
clatter  on  the  tiles  of  the  terrace.  Antoinette  thought  him 
charming.  Her  pride  and  her  affections  were  both  tickled. 
She  would  swim  in  those  first  sweet  hours  of  young  love. 
Olivier  detested  the  young  squire,  because  he  was  strong,  heavy, 
brutal,  had  a  loud  laugh,  and  hands  that  gripped  like  a  vise, 
and  a  disdainful  trick  of  always  calling  him:  "Boy  .  .  ." 
and  pinching  his  cheeks.  He  detested  him  above  all, — without 
knowing  it, — because  he  dared  to  love  his  sister:  ...  his 


ANTOINETTE  215 

sister,  his  very  own,  his,  and  she  could  not  belong  to  any  one 

else!   .    .    . 

Disaster  came.  Sooner  or  later  there  must  come  a  crisis 
in  the  lives  of  the  old  middle-class  families  which  for  cen- 
turies have  vegetated  in  the  same  little  corner  of  the  earth, 
and  have  sucked  it  dry.  They  sleep  in  peace,  and  think  them- 
selves as  eternal  as  the  earth  that  bears  them.  But  the  soil 
beneath  them  is  dry  and  dead,  their  roots  are  sapped:  just  the 
blow  of  an  ax,  and  down  they  come.  Then  they  talk  of  ac- 
cidents and  unforeseen  misfortunes.  There  would  have  been 
no  accident  if  there  had  been  more  strength  in  the  tree :  or,  at 
least,  would  have  been  no  more  than  a  sudden  storm,  wrenching 
away  a  few  branches,  but  never  shaking  the  tree. 

Antoine  Jeannin  was  weak,  trustful,  and  a  little  vain.  He 
loved  to  throw  dust  in  people's  eyes,  and  easily  confounded 
"  seeming "  and  "  being."  He  spent  recklessly,  though  his 
extravagance,  moderated  by  fits  of  remorse  as  the  result  of  the 
age-old  habit  of  economy — (he  would  fling  away  pounds,  and 
haggle  over  a  farthing) — never  seriously  impaired  his  capital. 
He  was  not  very  cautious  in  business  either.  He  never  refused 
to  lend  money  to  his  friends:  and  it  was  not  difficult  to  be  a 
friend  of  his.  He  did  not  always  trouble  to  ask  for  a  receipt: 
he  kept  a  rough  account  of  what  was  owing  to  him,  and  never 
asked  for  payment  before  it  was  offered  him.  He  believed  in 
the  good  faith  of  other  men,  and  supposed  that  they  would 
believe  in  his  own.  He  was  much  more  timid  than  his  jocular, 
easy-going  manners  led  people  to  suppose.  He  would  never 
have  dared  to  refuse  certain  importunate  borrowers,  or  to  let 
his  doubts  of  their  solvency  appear.  That  arose  from  a  mixture 
of  kindness  and  pusillanimity.  He  did  not  wish  to  offend  any- 
body, and  he  was  afraid  of  being  insulted.  So  he  was  always 
giving  way.  And,  by  way  of  carrying  it  off,  he  would  lend  with 
alacrity,  as  though  his  debtors  were  doing  him  a  service  by 
borrowing  his  money.  And  he  was  not  far  from  believing  it: 


216  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

his  vanity  and  optimism  had  no  difficulty  in  persuading  him 
that  every  business  he  touched  was  good  business. 

Such  ways  of  dealing  were  not  calculated  to  alienate  the 
sympathies  of  his  debtors:  he  was  adored  by  the  peasants,  who 
knew  that  they  could  always  count  on  his  good  nature,  and 
never  hesitated  to  resort  to  him.  But  the  gratitude  of  men — 
even  of  honest  men — is  a  fruit  that  must  be  gathered  in  good 
season.  If  it  is  left  too  long  upon  the  tree,  it  quickly  rots. 
After  a  few  months  M.  Jeannin's  debtors  would  begin  to  think 
that  his  assistance  was  their  right :  and  they  were  even  inclined 
to  think  that,  as  M.  Jeannin  had  been  so  glad  to  help  them,  it 
must  have  been  to  his  interest  to  do  so.  The  best  of  them  con- 
sidered themselves  discharged — if  not  of  the  debt,  at  least  of  the 
obligation  of  gratitude — by  the  present  of  a  hare  they  had 
killed,  or  a  basket  of  eggs  from  their  fowlyard,  which  they 
would  come  and  offer  to  the  banker  on  the  day  of  the  great  fair 
of  the  year. 

As  hitherto  only  small  sums  had  been  lent,  and  M.  Jeannin 
had  only  had  to  do  with  fairly  honest  people,  there  were  no 
very  awkward  consequences:  the  loss  of  money — of  which  the 
banker  never  breathed  a  word  to  a  soul — was  very  small.  But 
it  was  a  very  different  matter  when  M.  Jeannin  knocked  up 
against  a  certain  company  promoter  who  was  launching  a  great 
industrial  concern,  and  had  got  wind  of  the  banker's  easy-going 
ways  and  financial  resources.  This  gentleman,  who  wore  the 
ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  pretended  to  be  intimate 
with  two  or  three  Ministers,  an  Archbishop,  an  assortment  of 
senators,  and  various  celebrities  of  the  literary  and  financial 
world,  and  to  be  in  touch  with  an  omnipotent  newspaper,  had  a 
very  imposing  manner,  and  most  adroitly  assumed  the  authori- 
tative and  familiar  tone  most  calculated  to  impress  his  man. 
By  way  of  introduction  and  recommendation,  with  a  clumsiness 
which  would  have  aroused  the  suspicions  of  a  quicker  man  than 
M.  Jeannin,  he  produced  certain  ordinary  complimentary  let- 
ters which  he  had  received  from  the  illustrious  persons  of  his 
acquaintance,  asking  him  to  dinner,  or  thanking  him  for  some 


ANTOINETTE  217 

invitation  they  had  received:  for  it  is  well  known  that  the 
French  are  never  niggardly  with  such  epistolary  small  change, 
nor  particularly  chary  of  snaking  hands  with,  and  accepting  in- 
vitations from,  an  individual  whom  they  have  only  known  for 
an  hour — provided  only  that  he  amuses  them  and  does  not  ask 
them  for  money :  and  even  as  regards  that,  there  are  many  who 
would  not  refuse  to  lend  their  new  friend  money  so  long  as 
others  did  the  same.  And  it  would  be  a  poor  lookout  for  a 
clever  man  bent  on  relieving  his  neighbor  of  his  superfluous 
money  if  he  could  not  find  a  sheep  who  could  be  induced  to 
jump  the  fence  so  that  all  the  rest  would  follow. — If  other 
sheep  had  not  taken  the  fence  before  him,  M.  Jeannin  would 
have  been  the  first.  He  was  of  the  woolly  tribe  which  is  made 
to  be  fleeced.  He  was  seduced  by  his  visitor's  exalted  connec- 
tions, his  fluency  and  his  trick  of  flattery,  and  also  by  the  first 
fine  results  of  his  advice.  He  only  risked  a  little  at  first,  and 
won:  then  he  risked  much:  finally  he  risked  all:  not  only  his 
own  money,  but  that  of  his  clients  as  well.  He  did  not  tell 
them  about  it :  he  was  sure  he  would  win :  he  wanted  to  over- 
whelm them  with  the  great  thing  he  had  done  for  them. 

The  venture  collapsed.  He  heard  of  it  indirectly  through 
one  of  his  Parisian  correspondents  who  happened  to  mention 
the  new  crash,  without  ever  dreaming  that  Jeannin  was  one 
of  the  victims:  for  the  banker  had  not  said  a  word  to  any- 
body: with  incredible  irresponsibility,  he  had  not  taken  the 
trouble — even  avoided — asking  the  advice  of  men  who  were  in 
a  position  to  give  him  information:  he  had  done  the  whole 
thing  secretly,  in  the  infatuated  belief  in  his  infallible  com- 
mon sense,  and  he  had  been  satisfied  with  the  vaguest  knowledge 
of  what  he  was  doing.  There  are  such  moments  of  aberration 
in  life:  moments,  it  would  seem,  when  a  man  is  marked  out 
for  ruin,  when  he  is  fearful  lest  any  one  should  come  to  his  aid, 
when  he  avoids  all  advice  that  might  save  him,  hides  away,  and 
rushes  headlong,  madly,  shaking  himself  free  for  the  fatal 
plunge. 

M.  Jeannin  rushed  to  the  station,  utterly  sick  at  heart,  and 


218  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

took  train  for  Paris.  He  went  to  look  for  his  man.  He  flat- 
tered himself  with  the  hope  that  the  news  might  be  false,  or,  at 
least,  exaggerated.  Naturally  he  did  not  find  the  fellow,  and 
received  further  news  of  the  collapse,  which  was  as  complete  as 
possible.  He  returned  distracted,  and  said  nothing.  No  one 
had  any  idea  of  it  yet.  He  tried  to  gain  a  few  weeks,  a  few 
days.  In  his  incurable  optimism,  he  tried  hard  to  believe  that 
he  would  find  a  way  to  make  good,  if  not  his  own  losses,  at 
least  those  of  his  clients.  He  tried  various  expedients,  with  a 
clumsy  haste  which  would  have  removed  any  chance  of  succeed- 
ing that  he  might  have  had.  He  tried  to  borrow,  but  was 
everywhere  refused.  In  his  despair,  he  staked  the  little  he 
had  left  on  wildly  speculative  ventures,  and  lost  it  all.  From 
that  moment  there  was  a  complete  change  in  his  character.  He 
relapsed  into  an  alarming  state  of  terror:  still  he  said  nothing: 
but  he  was  bitter,  violent,  harsh,  horribly  sad.  But  still,  when 
he  was  with  strangers,  he  affected  his  old  gaiety:  but  no  one 
could  fail  to  see  the  change  in  him:  it  was  attributed  to  his 
health.  With  his  family  he  was  less  guarded:  and  they  saw 
at  once  that  he  was  concealing  some  serious  trouble.  They 
hardly  knew  him.  Sometimes  he  would  burst  into  a  room  and 
ransack  a  desk,  flinging  all  the  papers  higgledy-piggledy  on 
to  the  floor,  and  flying  into  a  frenzy  because  he  could  not  find 
what  he  was  looking  for,  or  because  some  one  offered  to  help 
him.  Then  he  would  stand  stock  still  in  the  middle  of  it  all, 
and  when  they  asked  him  what  he  was  looking  for,  he  did  not 
know  himself.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  all  interest  in  his  fam- 
ily :  or  he  would  kiss  them  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  could  not 
sleep.  He  could  not  eat. 

Madame  Jeannin  saw  that  they  were  on  the  eve  of  a  catas- 
trophe: but  she  had  never  taken  any  part  in  her  husband's 
affairs,  and  did  not  understand  them.  She  questioned  him :  he 
repulsed  her  brutally :  and,  hurt  in  her  pride,  she  did  not  per- 
sist. But  she  trembled,  without  knowing  why. 

The  children  could  have  no  suspicion  of  the  impending 
disaster.  Antoinette,  no  doubt,  was  too  intelligent  not,  like 


ANTOINETTE  219 

her  mother,  to  have  a  presentiment  of  some  misfortune :  but  she 
was  absorbed  in  the  delight  of  her  budding  love :  she  refused  to 
think  of  unpleasant  things:  she  persuaded  herself  that  the 
clouds  would  pass — or  that  it  would  be  time  enough  to  see  them 
when  it  was  impossible  to  disregard  them. 

Of  the  three,  the  boy  Olivier  was  perhaps  the  nearest  to 
understanding  what  was  going  on  in  his  unhappy  father's 
soul.  He  felt  that  his  father  was  suffering,  and  he  suffered 
with  him  in  secret.  But  he  dared  not  say  anything:  naturally 
he  could  do  nothing,  and  he  was  helpless.  And  then  he,  too, 
thrust  back  the  thought  of  sad  things,  the  nature  of  which 
he  could  not  grasp:  like  his  mother  and  sister,  he  was  super- 
stitiously  inclined  to  believe  that  perhaps  misfortune,  the  ap- 
proach of  which  he  did  not  wish  to  see,  would  not  come.  Those 
poor  wretches  who  feel  the  imminence  of  danger  do  readily 
play  the  ostrich:  they  hide  their  heads  behind  a  stone,  and 
pretend  that  Misfortune  will  not  see  them. 

Disturbing  rumors  began  to  fly.  It  was  said  that  the  bank's 
credit  was  impaired.  In  vain  did  the  banker  assure  his  clients 
that  it  was  perfectly  all  right,  on  one  pretext  or  another  the 
more  suspicious  of  them  demanded  their  money.  M.  Jeannin 
felt  that  he  was  lost:  he  defended  himself  desperately,  assum- 
ing a  tone  of  indignation,  and  complaining  loftily  and  bitterly 
of  their  suspicions  of  himself:  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  be 
violent  and  angry  with  some  of  his  old  clients,  but  that  only 
let  him  down  finally.  Demands  for  payment  came  in  a  rush. 
On  his  beam-ends,  at  bay,  he  completely  lost  his  head.  He 
went  away  for  a  few  days  to  gamble  with  his  last  few  bank- 
notes at  a  neighboring  watering-place,  was  cleaned  out  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  returned  home.  His  sudden  departure 
set  the  little  town  by  the  ears,  and  it  was  said  that  he  had 
cleared  out:  and  Madame  Jeannin  had  had  great  difficulty  in 
coping  with  the  wild,  anxious  inquiries  of  the  people :  she  begged 
them  to  be  patient,  and  swore  that  her  husband  would  return. 
They  did  not  believe  her,  although  they  would  have  been  only 


220  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

too  glad  to  do  so.  And  so,  when  it  was  known  that  he  had 
returned,  there  was  a  general  sigh  of  relief:  there  were  many 
who  almost  believed  that  their  fears  had  been  baseless,  and 
that  the  Jeannins  were  much  too  shrewd  not  to  get  out  of  a 
hole  by  admitting  that  they  had  fallen  into  it.  The  banker's 
attitude  confirmed  that  impression.  Now  that  he  no  longer  had 
any  doubt  as  to  what  he  must  do,  he  seemed  to  be  w,eary,  but 
quite  calm.  He  chatted  quietly  to  a  few  friends  whom  he  met 
in  the  station  road  on  his  way  home,  talking  about  the  drought 
and  the  country  not  having  had  any  water  for  weeks,  and  the 
superb  condition  of  the  vines,  and  the  fall  of  the  Ministry,  an- 
nounced in  the  evening  papers. 

When  he  reached  home  he  pretended  not  to  notice  his 
wife's  excitement,  who  had  run  to  meet  him  when  she  heard 
him  come  in,  and  told  him  volubly  and  confusedly  what  had 
happened  during  his  absence.  She  scanned  his  features  to 
try  and  see  whether  he  had  succeeded  in  averting  the  unknown 
danger:  but,  from  pride,  she  did  not  ask  him  anything:  she 
was  waiting  for  him  to  speak  first.  But  he  did  not  say  a  word 
about  the  thing  that  was  tormenting  them  both.  He  silently 
disregarded  her  desire  to  confide  in  him,  and  to  get  him  to  con- 
fide in  her.  He  spoke  of  the  heat,  and  of  how  tired  he  was, 
and  complained  of  a  racking  headache:  and  they  sat  down  to 
dinner  as  usual. 

He  talked  little,  and  was  dull,  lost  in  thought,  and  his 
brows  were  knit:  he  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  table: 
he  forced  himself  to  eat,  knowing  that  they  were  watching 
him,  and  looked  with  vague,  unseeing  eyes  at  his  children, 
who  were  intimidated  by  the  silence,  and  at  his  wife,  who  sat 
stiffly  nursing  her  injured  vanity,  and,  without  looking  at  him, 
marking  his  every  movement.  Towards  the  end  of  dinner  he 
seemed  to  wake  up:  he  tried  to  talk  to  Antoinette  and  Olivier, 
and  asked  them  what  they  had  been  doing  during  his  absence: 
but  he  did  not  listen  to  their  replies,  and  heard  only  the 
sound  of  their  voices:  and  although  he  was  staring  at  them, 
his  gaze  was  elsewhere.  Olivier  felt  it:  he  stopped*  in  the 


ANTOINETTE  221 

middle  of  his  prattle,  and  had  no  desire  to  go  on.  But,  after  a 
moment's  embarrassment,  Antoinette  recovered  her  gaiety:  she 
chattered  merrily,  like  a  magpie,  laid  her  head  on  her  father's 
shoulder,  or  tugged  his  sleeve  to  make  him  listen  to  what  she 
was  saying.  M.  Jeannin  said  nothing :  his  eyes  wandered  from 
Antoinette  to  Olivier,  and  the  crease  in  his  forehead  grew 
deeper  and  deeper.  In  the  middle  of  one  of  his  daughter's 
stories  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  got  up  and  went  and 
looked  out  of  the  window  to  conceal  his  emotion.  The  chil- 
dren folded  their  napkins,  and  got  up  too.  Madame  Jeannin 
told  them  to  go  and  play  in  the  garden:  in  a  moment  or  two 
they  could  be  heard  chasing  each  other  down  the  paths  and 
screaming.  Madame  Jeannin  looked  at  her  husband,  whose 
back  was  turned  towards  her,  and  she  walked  round  the  table 
as  though  to  arrange  something.  Suddenly  she  went  up  to 
him,  and,  in  a  voice  hushed  by  her  fear  of  being  over- 
heard by  the  servants  and  by  the  agony  that  was  in  her,  she 
said: 

"  Tell  me,  Antoine,  what  is  the  matter  ?  There  is  something 
the  matter.  .  .  .  You  are  hiding  something.  .  .  .  Has 
something  dreadful  happened  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

But  once  more  M.  Jeannin  put  her  off,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  said  harshly : 

"  No !    No,  I  tell  you !    Let  me  be !  " 

She  was  angry,  and  went  away:  in  her  fury,  she  declared 
that,  no  matter  what  happened  to  her  husband,  she  would  not 
bother  about  it  any  more. 

M.  Jeannin  went  down  into  the  garden.  Antoinette  was  still 
larking  about,  and  tugging  at  her  brother  to  make  him  run. 
But  the  boy  declared  suddenly  that  he  was  not  going  to  play 
any  more:  and  he  leaned  against  the  wall  of  the  terrace  a 
few  yards  away  from  his  father.  Antoinette  tried  to  go  on 
teasing  him:  but  he  drove  her  away  and  sulked:  then  she 
called  him  names:  and  when  she  found  she  could  get  no  more 
fun  out  of  him,  she  went  in  and  began  to  play  the  piano. 

M.  Jeannin  and  Olivier  were  left  alone. 


222  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  boy  ?  Why  won't  you  play  ?  " 
asked  the  father  gently 

"  I'm  tired,  father." 

"  Well,  let  us  sit  here  on  this  seat  for  a  little." 

They  sat  down.  It  was  a  lovely  September  night.  A  dark, 
clear  sky.  The  sweet  scent  of  the  petunias  was  mingled  with 
the  stale  and  rather  unwholesome  smell  of  the  canal  sleeping 
darkly  below  the  terrace  wall.  Great  moths,  pale  and  sphinx- 
like,  fluttered  about  the  flowers,  with  a  little  whirring  sound. 
The  even  voices  of  the  neighbors  sitting  at  their  doors  on 
the  other  side  of  the  canal  rang  through  the  silent  air.  In  the 
house  Antoinette  was  playing  a  florid  Italian  cavatina.  M. 
Jeannin  held  Olivier's  hand  in  his.  He  was  smoking.  Through 
the  darkness  behind  which  his  father's  face  was  slowly  dis- 
appearing the  boy  could  see  the  red  glow  of  the  pipe,  which 
gleamed,  died  away,  gleamed  again,  and  finally  went  out. 
Neither  spoke.  Then  Olivier  asked  the  names  of  the  stars. 
M.  Jeannin,  like  almost  all  men  of  his  class,  knew  nothing 
of  the  things  of  Nature,  and  could  not  tell  him  the  names  of 
any  save  the  great  constellations,  which  are  known  to  every 
one :  but  he  pretended  that  the  boy  was  asking  their  names,  and 
told  him.  Olivier  made  no  objection:  it  always  pleased  him 
to  hear  their  beautiful  mysterious  names,  and  to  repeat  them 
in  a  whisper.  Besides,  he  was  not  so  much  wanting  to  know 
their  names  as  instinctively  to  come  closer  to  his  father.  They 
said  nothing  more.  Olivier  looked  at  the  stars,  with  his  head 
thrown  back  and  his  mouth  open:  he  was  lost  in  drowsy 
thoughts:  he  could  feel  through  all  his  veins  the  warmth 
of  his  father's  hand.  Suddenly  the  hand  began  to  trem- 
ble. That  seemed  funny  to  Olivier,  and  he  laughed  and  said 
sleepily : 

"  Oh,  how  your  hand  is  trembling,  father !  " 

M.  Jeannin  removed  his  hand. 

After  a  moment  Olivier,  still  busy  with  his  own  thoughts, 
said: 

"Are  you  tired,  too,  father?" 


ANTOINETTE  223 

"Yes,  my  boy." 

The  boy  replied  affectionately : 

"  You  must  not  tire  yourself  out  so  much,  father." 

M.  Jeannin  drew  Olivier  towards  him,  and  held  him  to  his 
breast  and  murmured: 

"My  poor  boy!  ..." 

But  already  Olivier's  thoughts  had  flown  off  on  another  tack. 
The  church  clock  chimed  eight  o'clock.  He  broke  away,  and 
said: 

"  I'm  going  to  read." 

On  Thursdays  he  was  allowed  to  read  for  an  hour  after  din- 
ner, until  bedtime:  it  was  his  greatest  joy:  and  nothing  in  the 
world  could  induce  him  to  sacrifice  a  minute  of  it. 

M.  Jeannin  let  him  go.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  ter- 
race for  a  little  in  the  dark.  Then  he,  too,  went  in. 

In  the  room  his  wife  and  the  two  children  were  sitting  round 
the  lamp.  Antoinette  was  sewing  a  ribbon  on  to  a  blouse, 
talking  and  humming  the  while,  to  Olivier's  obvious  discom- 
fort, for  he  was  stopping  his  ears  with  his  fists  so  as  not  to 
hear,  while  he  pored  over  his  book  with  knitted  brows,  and 
his  elbows  on  the  table.  Madame  Jeannin  was  mending  stock- 
ings and  talking  to  the  old  nurse,  who  was  standing  by  her 
side  and  giving  an  account  of  her  day's  expenditure,  and  seiz- 
ing the  opportunity  for  a  little  gossip :  she  always  had  some 
amusing  tale  to  tell  in  her  extraordinary  lingo,  which  used  to 
make  them  roar  with  laughter,  while  Antoinette  would  try  to 
imitate  her.  M.  Jeannin  watched  them  silently.  No  one 
noticed  him.  He  wavered  for  a  moment,  sat  down,  took  up 
a  book,  opened  it  at  random,  shut  it  again,  got  up:  he  could 
not  sit  still.  He  lit  a  candle  and  said  good-night.  He  went 
up  to  the  children  and  kissed  them  fondly:  they  returned  his 
kiss  absently  without  looking  up  at  him, — Antoinette  being 
absorbed  in  her  work,  and  Olivier  in  his  book.  Olivier  did 
not  even  take  his  hands  from  his  ears,  and  grunted  "  Good- 
night," and  went  on  reading: — (when  he  was  reading  even  if 
one  of  his  family  had  fallen  into  the  fire,  he  would  not  have 


224  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

looked  up). — M.  Jeannin  left  the  room.  He  lingered  in  the 
next  room,  for  a  moment.  His  wife  came  out  soon,  the  old 
nurse  having  gone  to  arrange  the  linen-cupboard.  She  pre- 
tended not  to  see  him.  He  hesitated,  then  came  up  to  her, 
and  said : 

"I  beg  your  pardon.     I  was  rather  rude  just  now." 

She  longed  to  say  to  him : 

"  My  dear,  my  dear,  that  is  nothing :  but,  tell  me,  what  is 
the  matter  with  you  ?  Tell  me,  what  is  hurting  you  so  ?  " 

But  she  jumped  at  the  opportunity  of  taking  her  revenge, 
and  said : 

"  Let  me  be !  You  have  been  behaving  odiously.  You  treat 
me  worse  than  you  would  a  servant." 

And  she  went  on  in  that  strain,  setting  forth  all  her 
grievances  volubly,  shrilly,  rancorously. 

He  raised  his  hands  wearily,  smiled  bitterly,  and  left  her. 

No  one  heard  the  report  of  the  revolver.  Only,  next  day, 
when  it  was  known  what  had  happened,  a  few  of  the  neigh- 
bors remembered  that,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  when  the 
streets  were  quiet,  they  had  noticed  a  sharp  noise  like  the 
cracking  of  a  whip.  They  did  not  pay  any  attention  to  it. 
The  silence  of  the  night  fell  once  more  upon  the  town,  wrap- 
ping both  living  and  dead  about  with  its  mystery. 

Madame  Jeannin  was  asleep,  but  woke  up  an  hour  or  two 
later.  Not  seeing  her  husband  by  her  side  she  got  up  and 
went  anxiously  through  all  the  rooms,  and  downstairs  to  the 
offices  of  the  bank,  which  were  in  an  annex  of  the  house:  and 
there,  sitting  in  his  chair  in  his  office,  she  found  M.  Jeannin 
huddled  forward  on  his  desk  in  a  pool  of  blood,  which  was  still 
dripping  down  on  to  the  floor.  She  gave  a  scream,  dropped 
her  candle,  and  fainted.  She  was  heard  in  the  house.  The 
servants  came  running,  picked  her  up,  took  care  of  her,  and 
laid  the  body  of  M.  Jeannin  on  a  bed.  The  door  of  the  chil- 
dren's room  was  locked.  Antoinette  was  sleeping  happily. 
Olivier  heard  the  sound  of  voices  and  footsteps:  he  wanted  to 


ANTOINETTE  225 

go  and  see  what  it  was  all  about:  but  he  was  afraid  of  waking 
his  sister,  and  presently  he  went  to  sleep  again. 

Next  morning  the  news  was  all  over  the  town  before  they 
knew  anything.  Their  old  nurse  came  sobbing  and  told  them. 
Their  mother  was  incapable  of  thinking  of  anything:  her  con- 
dition was  critical.  The  two  children  were  left  alone  in  the 
presence  of  death.  At  first  they  were  more  fearful  than  sor- 
rowful. And  they  were  not  allowed  to  weep  in  peace.  The 
cruel  legal  formalities  were  begun  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
Antoinette  hid  away  in  her  room,  and  with  all  the  force  of 
her  youthful  egoism  clung  to  the  only  idea  which  could  help 
her  to  thrust  back  the  horror  of  the  overwhelming  reality: 
the  thought  of  her  lover:  all  day  long  she  waited  for  him  to 
come.  Never  had  he  been  more  ardent  than  the  last  time  she 
had  seen  him,  and  she  had  no  doubt  that,  as  soon  as  he  heard  of 
the  catastrophe,  he  would  hasten  to  share  her  grief. — But  no- 
body came,  or  wrote,  or  gave  one  sign  of  sympathy.  As  soon 
as  the  news  of  the  suicide  was  out,  people  who  had  intrusted 
their  money  to  the  banker  rushed  to  the  Jeannins'  house,  forced 
their  way  in,  and,  with  merciless  cruelty,  stormed  and  screamed 
at  the  widow  and  the  two  children. 

In  a  few  days  they  were  faced  with  their  utter  ruin:  the 
loss  of  a  dear  one,  the  loss  of  their  fortune,  their  position,  their 
public  esteem,  and  the  desertion  of  their  friends.  A  total 
wreck.  Nothing  was  left  to  provide  for  them.  They  had  all 
three  an  uncompromising  feeling  for  moral  purity,  which  made 
their  suffering  all  the  greater  from  the  dishonor  of  which  they 
were  innocent.  Of  the  three  Antoinette  was  the  most  dis- 
traught by  their  sorrow,  because  she  had  never  really  known 
suffering.  Madame  Jeannin  and  Olivier,  though  they  were 
racked  by  it,  were  more  inured  to  it.  Instinctively  pessimistic, 
they  were  overwhelmed  but  not  surprised.  The  idea  of  death 
had  always  been  a  refuge  to  them,  as  it  was  now,  more  than 
ever :  they  longed  for  death.  It  is  pitiful  to  be  so  resigned,  but 
not  so  terrible  as  the  revolt  of  a  young  creature,  confident  and 
happy,  loving  every  moment  of  her  life,  who  suddenly  finds 


226  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

herself  face  to  face  with  such  unfathomable,  irremediable  sor- 
row, and  death  which  is  horrible  to  her.  .  .  . 

Antoinette  discovered  the  ugliness  of  the  world  in  a  flash. 
Her  eyes  were  opened:  she  saw  life  and  human  beings  as  they 
are:  she  judged  her  father,  her  mother,  and  her  brother. 
While  Olivier  and  Madame  Jeannin  wept  together,  in  her 
grief  she  drew  into  herself.  Desperately  she  pondered  the 
past,  the  present,  and  the  future:  and  she  saw  that  there  was 
nothing  left  for  her,  no  hope,  nothing  to  support  her:  she 
could  count  on  no  one. 

The  funeral  took  place,  grimly,  shamefully.  The  Church 
refused  to  receive  the  body  of  the  suicide.  The  widow  and 
orphans  were  deserted  by  the  cowardice  of  their  former 
friends.  One  or  two  of  them  came  for  a  moment:  and  their 
embarrassment  was  even  harder  to  bear  than  the  absence  of  the 
rest.  They  seemed  to  make  a  favor  of  it,  and  their  silence  was 
big  with  reproach  and  pitying  contempt.  It  was  even  worse 
with  their  relations :  not  only  did  they  receive  no  single  word  of 
sympathy,  but  they  were  visited  with  bitter  reproaches.  The 
banker's  suicide,  far  from  removing  ill-feeling,  seemed  to  be 
hardly  less  criminal  than  his  failure.  Eespectable  people  can- 
not forgive  those  who  kill  themselves.  It  seems  to  them  mon- 
strous that  a  man  should  prefer  death  to  life  with  dishonor: 
and  they  would  fain  call  down  all  the  rigor  of  the  law  on  him 
who  seems  to  say : 

"  There  is  no  misery  so  great  as  that  of  living  with  you." 

The  greatest  cowards  are  not  the  least  ready  to  accuse  him 
of  cowardice.  And  when,  in  addition,  the  suicide,  by  ending 
his  life,  touches  their  interests  and  their  revenge,  they  lose 
all  control. — Not  for  one  moment  did  they  think  of  all  that 
the  wretched  Jeannin  must  have  suffered  to  come  to  it.  They 
would  have  had  him  suffer  a  thousand  times  more.  And  as  he 
had  escaped  them,  they  transferred  their  fury  to  his  family. 
They  did  not  admit  it  to  themselves:  for  they  knew  they  were 
unjust.  But  they  did  it  all  the  same,  for  they  needed  a  victim. 

Madame  Jeannin?  who  seemed  to  be  able  to  do  nothing  but 


ANTOINETTE  227 

weep  and  moan,  recovered  her  energy  when  her  husband  was 
attacked.  She  discovered  then  how  much  she  had  loved  him: 
and  she  and  her  two  children,  who  had  no  idea  what  would 
become  of  them  in  the  future,  all  agreed  to  renounce  their  claim 
to  her  dowry,  and  to  their  own  personal  estate,  in  order,  as 
far  as  possible,  to  meet  M.  Jeannin's  debts.  And,  since  it  had 
become  impossible  for  them  to  stay  in  the  little  town,  they  de- 
cided to  go  to  Paris. 

Their  departure  was  something  in  the  nature  of  a  flight. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  before, — (a  melancholy  evening 
towards  the  end  of  September:  the  fields  were  disappearing 
behind  the  white  veil  of  mist,  out  of  which,  as  they  walked 
along  the  road,  on  either  side  the  fantastic  shapes  of  the  drip- 
ping, shivering  bushes  started  forth,  looking  like  the  plants  in 
an  aquarium), — they  went  together  to  say  farewell  to  the  grave 
where  he  lay.  They  all  three  knelt  on  the  narrow  curbstone 
which  surrounded  the  freshly  turned  patch  of  earth.  They 
wept  in  silence;  Olivier  sobbed.  Madame  Jeannin  mopped  her 
eyes  mournfully.  She  augmented  her  grief  and  tortured  her- 
self by  saying  to  herself  over  and  over  again  the  words  she 
had  spoken  to  her  husband  the  last  time  she  had  seen  him  alive. 
Olivier  thought  of  that  last  conversation  on  the  seat  on  the 
terrace.  Antoinette  wondered  dreamily  what  would  become  of 
them.  None  of  them  ever  dreamed  of  reproaching  the  wretched 
man  who  had  dragged  them  down  in  his  own  ruin.  But  An- 
toinette thought : 

"  Ah !  dear  father,  how  we  shall  suffer !  " 

The  mist  grew  more  dense,  the  cold  damp  pierced  through 
to  their  bones.  But  Madame  Jeannin  could  not  bring  herself 
to  go.  Antoinette  saw  that  Olivier  was  shivering  and  she  said 
to  her  mother : 

"  I  am  cold." 

They  got  up.  Just  as  they  were  going,  Madame  Jeannin 
turned  once  more  towards  the  grave,  gazed  at  it  for  the  last 
time,  and  said; 


228  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

"  My  dear,  my  dear !  " 

They  left  the  cemetery  as  night  was  falling.  Antoinette  held 
Olivier's  icy  hand  in  hers. 

They  went  back  to  the  old  house.  It  was  their  last  night 
under  the  roof-tree  where  they  had  always  slept,  where  their 
lives  and  the  lives  of  their  parents  had  been  lived — the  walls, 
the  hearth,  the  little  patch  of  earth  were  so  indissolubly  linked 
with  the  family's  joys  and  sorrows,  as  almost  themselves  to 
be  part  of  the  family,  part  of  their  life,  which  they  could  only 
leave  to  die. 

Their  boxes  were  packed.  They  were  to  take  the  first  train 
next  day  before  the  shops  were  opened:  they  wanted  to  escape 
their  neighbors'  curiosity  and  malicious  remarks. — They  longed 
to  cling  to  each  other  and  stay  together:  but  they  went  in- 
stinctively to  their  rooms  and  stayed  there :  there  they  re- 
mained standing,  never  moving,  not  even  taking  off  their  hats 
and  cloaks,  touching  the  walls,  the  furniture,  all  the  things  they 
were  going  to  leave,  pressing  their  faces  against  the  window- 
panes,  trying  to  take  away  with  them  in  memory  the  contact  of 
the  things  they  loved.  At  last  they  made  an  effort  to  shake 
free  from  the  absorption  of  their  sorrowful  thoughts  and  met 
in  Madame  Jeannin's  room, — the  family  room,  with  a  great 
recess  at  the  back,  where,  in  old  days,  they  always  used  to  fore- 
gather in  the  evening,  after  dinner,  when  there  were  no  visitors. 
In  old  days!  .  .  .  How  far  off  they  seemed  now! — They 
sat  silently  round  the  meager  fire :  then  they  all  knelt  by  the  bed 
and  said  their  prayers:  and  they  went  to  bed  very  early,  for 
they  had  to  be  up  before  dawn.  But  it  was  long  before  they 
slept. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  Madame  Jeannin,  who 
had  looked  at  her  watch  every  hour  or  so  to  see  whether  it 
was  not  time  to  get  ready,  lit  her  candle  and  got  up.  An- 
toinette, who  had  hardly  slept  at  all,  heard  her  and  got  up  too. 
Olivier  was  fast  asleep.  Madame  Jeannin  gazed  at  him  tenderly 
and  could  not  bring  herself  to  wake  him.  She  stole  away  on 
tiptoe  and  said  to  Antoinette : 


ANTOINETTE  229 

"  Don't  make  any  noise :  let  the  poor  boy  enjoy  his  last  mo- 
ments here ! " 

The  two  women  dressed  and  finished  their  packing.  About 
the  house  hovered  the  profound  silence  of  the  cold  night,  such 
a  night  as  makes  all  living  things,  men  and  beasts,  cower  away 
for  warmth  into  the  depths  of  sleep.  Antoinette's  teeth  were 
chattering:  she  was  frozen  body  and  soul. 

The  front  door  creaked  upon  the  frozen  air.  The  old  nurse, 
who  had  the  key  of  the  house,  came  for  the  last  time  to  serve 
her  employers.  She  was  short  and  fat,  short-winded,  and  slow- 
moving  from  her  portliness,  but  she  was  remarkably  active  for 
her  age:  she  appeared  with  her  jolly  face  muffled  up,  and  her 
nose  was  red,  and  her  eyes  were  wet  with  tears.  She  was 
heart-broken  when  she  saw  that  Madame  Jeannin  had  got  up 
without  waiting  for  her,  and  had  herself  lit  the  kitchen  fire. — 
Olivier  woke  up  as  she  came  in.  His  first  impulse  was  to  close 
his  eyes,  turn  over,  and  go  to  sleep  again.  Antoinette  came  and 
laid  her  hand  gently  on  her  brother's  shoulder,  and  she  said  in  a 
low  voice : 

"  Olivier,  dear,  it  is  time  to  get  up." 

He  sighed,  opened  his  eyes,  saw  his  sister's  face  leaning 
over  him :  she  smiled  sadly  and  caressed  his  face  with  her  hand. 
She  said: 

"  Come ! » 

He  got  up. 

They  crept  out  of  the  house,  noiselessly,  like  thieves.  They 
all  had  parcels  in  their  hands.  The  old  nurse  went  in  front 
of  them  trundling  their  boxes  in  a  wheelbarrow.  They  left 
behind  almost  all  their  possessions,  and  took  away,  so  to  speak, 
only  what  they  had  on  their  backs  and  a  change  of  clothes.  A 
few  things  for  remembrance  were  to  be  sent  after  them  by 
goods-train:  a  few  books,  portraits,  the  old  grandfather's  clock, 
whose  tick-tock  seemed  to  them  to  be  the  beating  of  their 
hearts. — The  air  was  keen.  No  one  was  stirring  in  the  town: 
the  shutters  were  closed  and  the  streets  empty.  They  said 
nothing:  only  the  old  servant  spoke.  Madame  Jeannin  was 


230  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

striving  to  fix  in  her  memory  all  the  images  which  told  her  of 
all  her  past  life. 

At  the  station,  out  of  vanity,  Madame  Jeannin  took  second- 
class  tickets,  although  she  had  vowed  to  travel  third:  but  she 
had  not  the  courage  to  face  the  humiliation  in  the  presence  of 
the  railway  clerks  who  knew  her.  She  hurried  into  an  empty 
compartment  with  her  two  children  and  shut  the  door.  Hiding 
behind  the  curtains  they  trembled  lest  they  should  see  any  one 
they  knew.  But  no  one  appeared:  the  town  was  hardly  awake 
by  the  time  they  left:  the  train  was  empty:  there  were  only  a 
few  peasants  traveling  by  it,  and  some  oxen,  who  hung  their 
heads  out  of  their  trucks  and  bellowed  mournfully.  After  a 
long  wait  the  engine  gave  a  slow  whistle,  and  the  train  moved 
on  through  the  mist.  The  fugitives  drew  the  curtains  and 
pressed  their  faces  against  the  windows  to  take  a  last  long 
look  at  the  little  town,  with  its  Gothic  tower  just  appearing 
through  the  mist,  and  the  hill  covered  with  stubby  fields,  and 
the  meadows  white  and  steaming  with  the  frost;  already  it  was 
a  distant  dream-landscape,  fading  out  of  existence.  And  when 
the  train  turned  a  bend  and  passed  into  a  cutting,  and  they 
could  no  longer  see  it,  and  were  sure  there  was  no  one  to  see 
them,  they  gave  way  to  their  emotion.  With  her  handkerchief 
pressed  to  her  lips  Madame  Jeannin  sobbed.  Olivier  flung  him- 
self into  her  arms  and  with  his  head  on  her  knees  he  covered 
her  hands  with  tears  and  kisses.  Antoinette  sat  at  the  other 
end  of  the  compartment  and  looked  out  of  the  window  and 
wept  in  silence.  They  did  not  all  weep  for  the  same  reason. 
Madame  Jeannin  and  Olivier  were  thinking  only  of  what  they 
had  left  behind  them.  Antoinette  was  thinking  rather  of  what 
they  were  going  to  meet:  she  was  angry  with  herself:  she,  too, 
would  gladly  have  been  absorbed  in  her  memories.  .  .  . — She 
was  right  to  think  of  the  future:  she  had  a  truer  vision  of  the 
world  than  her  mother  and  brother.  They  were  weaving  dreams 
about  Paris.  Antoinette  herself  had  little  notion  of  what 
awaited  them  there.  They  had  never  been  there.  Madame 
Jeannin  imagined  that,  though  their  position  would  be  sad 


ANTOINETTE  231 

enough,  there  would  be  no  reason  for  anxiety.  She  had  a  sister 
in  Paris,  the  wife  of  a  wealthy  magistrate :  and  she  counted  on 
her  assistance.  She  was  convinced  also  that  with  the  education 
her  children  had  received  and  their  natural  gifts,  which,  like 
all  mothers,  she  overestimated,  they  would  have  no  difficulty  in 
earning  an  honest  living. 

Their  first  impressions  were  gloomy  enough.  As  they  left  the 
station  they  were  bewildered  by  the  jostling  crowd  of  people 
in  the  luggage-room  and  the  confused  uproar  of  the  carriages 
outside.  It  was  raining.  They  could  not  find  a  cab,  and  had 
to  walk  a  long  way  with  their  arms  aching  with  their  heavy 
parcels,  so  that  they  had  to  stop  every  now  and  then  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  at  the  risk  of  being  run  over  or  splashed 
by  the  carriages.  They  could  not  make  a  single  driver  pay  any 
attention  to  them.  At  last  they  managed  to  stop  a  man  who 
was  driving  an  old  and  disgustingly  dirty  barouche.  As  they 
were  handing  in  the  parcels  they  let  a  bundle  of  rugs  fall  into 
the  mud.  The  porter  who  carried  the  trunk  and  the  cabman 
traded  on  their  ignorance,  and  made  them  pay  double.  Madame 
Jeannin  gave  the  address  of  one  of  those  second-rate  expensive 
hotels  patronized  by  provincials  who  go  on  going  to  them,  in 
spite  of  their  discomfort,  because  their  grandfathers  went  to 
them  thirty  years  ago.  They  were  fleeced  there.  They  were 
told  that  the  hotel  was  full,  and  they  were  accommodated  with 
one  small  room  for  which  they  were  charged  the  price  of 
three.  For  dinner  they  tried  to  economize  by  avoiding  the 
table  d'hote:  they  ordered  a  modest  meal,  which  cost  them  just 
as  much  and  left  them  famishing.  Their  illusions  concerning 
Paris  had  come  toppling  down  as  soon  as  they  arrived.  And, 
during  that  first  night  in  the  hotel,  when  they  were  squeezed 
into  one  little,  ill-ventilated  room,  they  could  not  sleep :  they 
were  hot  and  cold  by  turns,  and  could  not  breathe,  and  started 
at  every  footstep  in  the  corridor,  and  the  banging  of  the  doors, 
and  the  furious  ringing  of  the  electric  bells:  and  their  heads 
throbbed  with  the  incessant  roar  of  the  carriages  and  heavy 


232  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAKIS 

drays:  and  altogether  they  felt  terrified  of  the  monstrous  city 
into  which  they  had  plunged  to  their  utter  bewilderment. 

Next  day  Madame  Jeannin  went  to  see  her  sister,  who  lived 
in  a  luxurious  flat  in  the  Boulevard  Hausmann.  She  hoped, 
though  she  did  not  say  so,  that  they  would  be  invited  to  stay 
there  until  they  had  found  their  feet.  The  welcome  she  re- 
ceived was  enough  to  undeceive  her.  The  Poyet-Delormes 
were  furious  at  their  relative's  failure:  especially  Madame 
Delorme,  who  was  afraid  that  it  would  be  set  against  her,  and 
might  injure  her  husband's  career,  and  she  thought  it  shame- 
less of  the  ruined  family  to  come  and  cling  to  them,  and  com- 
promise them  even  more.  The  magistrate  was  of  the  same 
opinion:  but  he  was  a  kindly  man:  he  would  have  been  more 
inclined  to  help,  but  for  his  wife's  intervention — to  which  he 
knuckled  under.  Madame  Poyet-Delorme  received  her  sister 
with  icy  coldness.  It  cut  Madame  Jeannin  to  the  heart:  but 
she  swallowed  down  her  pride:  she  hinted  at  the  difficulty  of 
her  position  and  the  assistance  she  hoped  to  receive  from  the 
Poyets.  Her  sister  pretended  not  to  understand,  and  did  not 
even  ask  her  to  stay  to  dinner :  they  were  ceremoniously  invited 
to  dine  at  the  end  of  the  week.  The  invitation  did  not  come 
from  Madame  Poyet  either,  but  from  the  magistrate,  who  was  a 
little  put  out  at  his  wife's  treatment  of  her  sister,  and  tried  to 
make  amends  for  her  curtness:  he  posed  as  the  good-natured 
man:  but  it  was  obvious  that  it  did  not  come  easily  to  him 
and  that  he  was  really  very  selfish.  The  unhappy  Jeannins  re- 
turned to  their  hotel  without  daring  to  say  what  they  thought 
of  their  first  visit. 

They  spent  the  following  days  in  wandering  about  Paris, 
looking  for  a  flat:  they  were  worn  out  with  going  up  stairs, 
and  disheartened  by  the  sight  of  the  great  barracks  crammed 
full  of  people,  and  the  dirty  stairs,  and  the  dark  rooms,  that 
seemed  so  depressing  to  them  after  their  own  big  house  in  the 
country.  They  grew  more  and  more  depressed.  And  they  were 
always  shy  and  timid  in  the  streets,  and  shops,  and  restaurants, 
so  that  they  were  cheated  at  every  turn.  Everything  they  asked 


ANTOINETTE  233 

for  cost  an  exorbitant  sum:  it  was  as  though  they  had  the 
faculty  of  turning  everything  they  touched  into  gold:  only,  it 
was  they  who  had  to  pay  out  the  gold.  They  were  incred- 
ibly simple  and  absolutely  incapable  of  looking  after  them- 
selves. 

Though  there  was  little  left  to  hope  for  from  Madame  Jean- 
nin's  sister,  the  poor  lady  wove  illusions  about  the  dinner  to 
which  they  were  invited.  They  dressed  for  it  with  fluttering 
hearts.  They  were  received  as  guests,  and  not  as  relations — 
though  nothing  more  was  expended  on  the  dinner  than  the 
ceremonious  manner.  The  children  met  their  cousins,  who 
were  almost  the  same  age  as  themselves,  but  they  were  not  much 
more  cordial  than  their  father  and  mother.  The  girl  was  very 
smart  and  coquettish,  and  spoke  to  them  with  a  lisp  and  a  po- 
litely superior  air,  with  affectedly  honeyed  manners  which  dis- 
concerted them.  The  boy  was  bored  by  this  duty-dinner  with 
their  poor  relations:  and  he  was  as  surly  as  could  be.  Madame 
Poyet-Delorme  sat  up  stiffly  in  her  chair,  and,  even  when  she 
handed  her  a  dish,  seemed  to  be  reading  her  sister  a  lesson. 
Madame  Poyet-Delorme  talked  trivialities  to  keep  the  conversa- 
tion from  becoming  serious.  They  never  got  beyond  talking  of 
what  they  were  eating  for  fear  of  touching  upon  any  intimate 
and  dangerous  topic.  Madame  Jeannin  made  an  effort  to  bring 
them  round  to  the  subject  next  her  heart:  Madame  Poyet- 
Delorme  cut  her  short  with  some  pointless  remark,  and  she 
had  not  the  courage  to  try  again. 

After  dinner  she  made  her  daughter  play  the  piano  by  way 
of  showing  off  her  talents.  The  poor  girl  was  embarrassed  and 
unhappy  and  played  execrably.  The  Poyets  were  bored  and 
anxious  for  her  to  finish.  Madame  Poyet  exchanged  glances 
with  her  daughter,  with  an  ironic  curl  of  her  lips:  and  as  the 
music  went  on  too  long  she  began  to  talk  to  Madame  Jeannin 
about  nothing  in  particular.  At  last  Antoinette,  who  had  quite 
lost  her  place,  and  saw  to  her  horror  that,  instead  of  going 
on,  she  had  begun  again  at  the  beginning,  and  that  there  was 
no  reason  why  she  should  ever  stop,  broke  off  suddenly,  and 


234:  JEAK-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

ended  with  two  inaccurate  chords  and  a  third  which  was  ab- 
solutely dissonant.  Monsieur  Poyet  said: 

"  Bravo ! " 

And  he  asked  for  coffee. 

Madame  Poyet  said  that  her  daughter  was  taking  lessons 
with  Pugno :  and  the  young  lady  "  who  was  taking  lessons  with 
Pugno  "  said : 

"  Charming,  my  dear  .    .    ." 

And  asked  where  Antoinette  had  studied. 

The  conversation  dropped.  They  had  exhausted  the  knick- 
knacks  in  the  drawing-room  and  the  dresses  of  Madame  and 
Mademoiselle  Poyet.  Madame  Jeannin  said  to  herself : 

"I  must  speak  now.     I  must  ..." 

And  she  fidgeted.  Just  as  she  had  pulled  herself  together  to 
begin,  Madame  Poyet  mentioned  casually,  without  any  attempt 
at  an  apology,  that  they  were  very  sorry  but  they  had  to  go 
out  at  half -past  nine:  they  had  an  invitation  which  they  had 
been  unable  to  decline.  The  Jeannins  were  at  a  loss,  and  got 
up  at  once  to  go.  The  Poyets  made  some  show  of  detaining 
them.  But  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  there  was  a  ring  at  the 
door:  the  footman  announced  some  friends  of  the  Poyets, 
neighbors  of  theirs,  who  lived  in  the  flat  below.  Poyet  and 
his  wife  exchanged  glances,  and  there  were  hurried  whisperings 
with  the  servants.  Poyet  stammered  some  excuse,  and  hur- 
ried the  Jeannins  into  the  next  room.  (He  was  trying  to  hide 
from  his  friends  the  existence,  and  the  presence  in  his  house, 
of  the  compromising  family.)  The  Jeannins  were  left  alone  in 
a  room  without  a  fire.  The  children  were  furious  at  the  affront. 
Antoinette  had  tears  in  her  eyes  and  insisted  on  their  going. 
Her  mother  resisted  for  a  little :  but  then,  after  they  had  waited 
for  some  time,  she  agreed.  They  went  out.  In  the  hall  they 
were  caught  by  Poyet,  who  had  been  told  by  a  servant,  and 
he  muttered  excuses:  he  pretended  that  he  wanted  them  to 
stay :  but  it  was  obvious  that  he  was  only  eager  for  them  to  go. 
He  helped  them  on  with  their  cloaks,  and  hurried  them  to  the 
door  with  smiles  and  handshakes  and  whispered  pleasantries,  and 


ANTOINETTE  235 

closed  the  door  on  them.  When  they  reached  their  hotel  the 
children  burst  into  angry  tears.  Antoinette  stamped  her 
foot,  and  swore  that  she  would  never  enter  their  house 
again. 

Madame  Jeannin  took  a  flat  on  the  fourth  floor  near  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes.  The  bedrooms  looked  on  to  the  filthy 
walls  of  a  gloomy  courtyard :  the  dining-room  and  the  drawing- 
room — (for  Madame  Jeannin  insisted  on  having  a  drawing- 
room) — on  to  a  busy  street.  All  day  long  steam-trams  went 
by  and  hearses  crawling  along  to  the  Ivry  Cemetery.  Filthy 
Italians,  with  a  horde  of  children,  loafed  about  on  the  seats, 
or  spent  their  time  in  shrill  argument.  The  noise  made  it  im- 
possible to  have  the  windows  open :  and  in  the  everting,  on  their 
way  home,  they  had  to  force  their  way  through  crowds  of 
bustling,  evil-smelling  people,  cross  the  thronged  and  muddy 
streets,  pass  a  horrible  pothouse,  that  was  on  the  ground  floor 
of  the  next  house,  in  the  door  of  which  there  were  always  fat, 
frowsy  women  with  yellow  hair  and  painted  faces,  eying  the 
passers-by. 

Their  small  supply  of  money  soon  gave  out.  Every  evening 
with  sinking  hearts  they  took  stock  of  the  widening  hole  in  their 
purse.  They  tried  to  stint  themselves:  but  they  did  not  know 
how  to  set  about  it:  that  is  a  science  which  can  only  be  learned 
by  years  of  experimenting,  unless  it  has  been  practised  from 
childhood.  Those  who  are  not  naturally  economical  merely 
waste  their  time  in  trying  to  be  so:  as  soon  as  a  fresh  oppor- 
tunity of  spending  money  crops  up,  they  succumb  to  the  tempta- 
tion: they  are  always  going  to  economize  next  time:  and  when 
they  do  happen  to  make  a  little  money,  or  to  think  they  have 
made  it,  they  rush  out  and  spend  ten  times  the  amount  on  the 
strength  of  it. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  weeks  the  Jeannins'  resources  were  ex- 
hausted. Madame  Jeannin  had  to  gulp  down  what  was  left 
of  her  pride,  and,  unknown  to  her  children,  she  went  and  asked 
Poyet  for  money.  She  contrived  to  see  him  alone  at  his  office, 
and  begged  him  to  advance  her  a  small  sum  until  they  had 


236  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

found  work  to  keep  them  alive.  Poyet,  who  was  weak  and 
human  enough,  tried  at  first  to  postpone  the  matter,  but 
finally  acceded  to  her  request.  He  gave  her  two  hundred  francs 
in  a  moment  of  emotion,  which  mastered  him,  and  he  repented 
of  it  immediately  afterwards, — when  he  had  to  make  his  peace 
with  Madame  Poyet,  who  was  furious  with  her  husband's  weak- 
ness, and  her  sister's  slyness. 

All  day  and  every  day  the  Jeannins  were  out  and  about 
in  Paris,  looking  for  work.  Madame  Jeannin,  true  to  the 
prejudices  of  her  class,  would  not  hear  of  their  engaging  in  any 
other  profession  than  those  which  are  called  "liberal" — no 
doubt  because  they  leave  their  devotees  free  to  starve.  She 
would  even  have  gone  so  far  as  to  forbid  her  daughter  to  take  a 
post  as  a  family  governess.  Only  the  official  professions,  in  the 
service  of  the  State,  were  not  degrading  in  her  eyes.  They 
had  to  discover  a  means  of  letting  Olivier  finish  his  educa- 
tion so  that  he  might  become  a  teacher.  As  for  Antoinette, 
Madame  Jeannin's  idea  was  that  she  should  go  to  a  school  to 
teach,  or  to  the  Conservatoire  to  win  the  prize  for  piano  playing. 
But  the  schools  at  which  she  applied  already  had  teachers 
enough,  who  were  much  better  qualified  than  her  daughter  with 
her  poor  little  elementary  certificate:  and,  as  for  music,  she 
had  to  recognize  that  Antoinette's  talent  was  quite  ordinary 
compared  with  that  of  so  many  others  who  did  not  get  on  at  all. 
They  came  face  to  face  with  the  terrible  struggle  for  life,  and 
the  blind  waste  of  talent,  great  and  small,  for  which  Paris  can 
find  no  use. 

The  two  children  lost  heart  and  exaggerated  their  useless- 
ness:  they  believed  that  they  were  mediocre,  and  did  their  best 
to  convince  themselves  and  their  mother  that  it  was  so.  Olivier, 
who  had  had  no  difficulty  in  shining  at  his  provincial  school, 
was  crushed  by  his  various  rebuffs:  he  seemed  to  have  lost  pos- 
session of  all  his  gifts.  At  the  school  for  which  he  won  a 
scholarship,  the  results  of  his  first  examinations  were  so  dis- 
astrous that  his  scholarship  was  taken  away  from  him.  He 


ANTOINETTE  237 

thought  himself  utterly  stupid.  At  the  same  time  he  had  a 
horror  of  Paris,  and  its  swarming  inhabitants,  and  the  disgust- 
ing immorality  of  his  schoolfellows,  and  their  shameful  con- 
versation, and  the  bestiality  of  a  few  of  them  who  did  not  spare 
him  from  their  abominable  proposals.  He  was  not  even  strong 
enough  to  show  his  contempt  for  them.  He  felt  degraded  by 
the  mere  thought  of  their  degradation.  With  his  mother  and 
sister,  he  took  refuge  in  the  heartfelt  prayers  which  they  used 
to  say  every  evening  after  the  day  of  deceptions  and  private 
humiliations,  which  to  their  innocence  seemed  to  be  a  taint,  of 
which  they  dared  not  tell  each  other.  But,  in  contact  with  the 
latent  spirit  of  atheism  which  is  in  the  air  of  Paris,  Olivier's 
faith  was  beginning  to  crumble  away,  without  his  knowledge, 
like  whitewash  trickling  down  a  wall  under  the  beating  of  the 
rain.  He  went  on  believing:  but  all  about  him  God  was 
dying. 

His  mother  and  sister  pursued  their  futile  quest.  Madame 
Jeannin  turned  once  more  to  the  Poyets,  who  were  anxious  to 
be  quit  of  them,  and  offered  them  work.  Madame  Jeannin  was 
to  go  as  reader  to  an  old  lady  who  was  spending  the  winter  in 
the  South  of  France.  A  post  was  found  for  Antoinette  as  gov- 
erness in  a  family  in  the  West,  who  lived  all  the  year  round  in 
the  country.  The  terms  were  not  bad,  but  Madame  Jeannin 
refused.  It  was  not  so  much  for  herself  that  she  objected  to  a 
menial  position,  but  she  was  determined  that  Antoinette  should 
not  be  reduced  to  it,  and  unwilling  to  part  with  her.  However 
unhappy  they  might  be,  just  because  they  were  unhappy,  they 
wished  to  be  together. — Madame  Poyet  took  it  very  badly. 
She  said  that  people  who  had  no  means  of  living  had  no  busi- 
ness to  be  proud.  Madame  Jeannin  could  not  refrain  from 
crying  out  upon  her  heartlessness.  Madame  Poyet  spoke  bit- 
terly of  the  bankruptcy  and  of  the  money  that  Madame  Jeannin 
owed  her.  They  parted,  and  the  breach  between  them  was 
final.  All  relationship  between  them  was  broken  off.  Madame 
Jeannin  had  only  one  desire  left:  to  pay  back  the  money  she 
had  borrowed.  But  she  was  unable  to  do  that. 


238  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

They  resumed  their  vain  search  for  work.  Madame  Jeamrin 
went  to  see  the  deputy  and  the  senator  of  her  department,  men 
whom  Monsieur  Jeannin  had  often  helped.  Everywhere  she  was 
brought  face  to  face  with  ingratitude  and  selfishness.  The 
deputy  did  not  even  answer  her  letters,  and  when  she  called 
on  him  he  sent  down  word  that  he  was  out.  The  senator  com- 
miserated her  ponderously  on  her  unhappy  position,  which  he 
attributed  to  "  the  wretched  Jeannin,"  whose  suicide  he  stig- 
matized harshly.  Madame  Jeannin  defended  her  husband. 
The  senator  said  that  of  course  he  knew  that  the  banker  had 
acted,  not  from  dishonesty,  but  from  stupidity,  and  that  he 
was  a  fool,  a  poor  gull,  who  knew  nothing,  and  would  go  his 
own  way  without  asking  anybody's  advice  or  taking  a  warning 
from  any  one.  If  he  had  only  ruined  himself,  there  would 
have  been  nothing  to  say :  that  would  have  been  his  own  affair. 
But — not  to  mention  the  ruin  that  he  had  brought  on  others, — 
that  he  should  have  reduced  his  wife  and  children  to  poverty 
and  deserted  them  and  left  them  to  get  out  of  it  as  best  they 
could  ...  it  was  Madame  Jeannin's  own  business  if  she  chose 
to  forgive  him,  if  she  were  a  saint,  but  for  his  part,  he,  the 
senator,  not  being  a  saint — (s,  a,  i,  n,  t), — but,  he  flattered  him- 
self, just  a  plain  man — (s,  a,  i,  n), — a  plain,  sensible,  rea- 
sonable human  being, — he  could  find  no  reason  for  forgiveness: 
a  man  who,  in  such  circumstances,  could  kill  himself,  was  a 
wretch.  The  only  extenuating  circumstance  he  could  find  in 
Jeannin's  case  was  that  he  was  not  responsible  for  his  actions. 
With  that  he  begged  Madame  Jeannin's  pardon  for  having  ex- 
pressed himself  a  little  emphatically  about  her  husband:  he 
pleaded  the  sympathy  that  he  felt  for  her:  and  he  opened  his 
drawer  and  offered  her  a  fifty-franc  note, — charity — which  she 
refused. 

She  applied  for  a  post  in  the  offices  of  a  great  Government 
department.  She  set  about  it  clumsily  and  inconsequently,  and 
all  her  courage  oozed  out  at  the  first  attempt.  She  returned 
home  so  demoralized  that  for  several  days  she  could  not  stir. 
And,  when  she  resumed  her  efforts,  it  was  too  late.  She  did 


ANTOINETTE  239 

not  find  help  either  with  the  church-people,  either  because  they 
saw  there  was  nothing  to  gain  by  it,  or  because  they  took  no 
interest  in  a  ruined  family,  the  head  of  which  had  been  notori- 
ously anti-clerical.  After  days  and  days  of  hunting  for  work 
Madame  Jeannin  could  find  nothing  better  than  a  post  as  music- 
teacher  in  a  convent — an  ungrateful  task,  ridiculously  ill-paid. 
To  eke  out  her  earnings  she  copied  music  in  the  evenings  for 
an  agency.  They  were  very  hard  on  her.  She  was  severely 
called  to  task  for  omitting  words  and  whole  lines,  as  she  did 
in  spite  of  her  application,  for  she  was  always  thinking  of  so 
many  other  things  and  her  wits  were  wool-gathering.  And  so, 
after  she  had  stayed  up  through  the  night  till  her  eyes  and  her 
back  ached,  her  copy  was  rejected.  She  would  return  home  ut- 
terly downcast.  She  would  spend  days  together  moaning,  un- 
able to  stir  a  finger.  For  a  long  time  she  had  been  suffering 
from  heart  trouble,  which  had  been  aggravated  by  her  hard 
struggles,  and  filled  her  with  dark  forebodings.  Sometimes 
she  would  have  pains,  and  difficulty  in  breathing  as  though  she 
were  on  the  point  of  death.  She  never  went  out  without  her 
name  and  address  written  on  a  piece  of  paper  in  her  pocket 
in  case  she  should  collapse  in  the  street.  What  would  happen 
if  she  were  to  disappear?  Antoinette  comforted  her  as  best  she 
could  by  affecting  a  confidence  which  she  did  not  possess:  she 
begged  her  to  be  careful  and  to  let  her  go  and  work  in  her 
stead.  But  the  little  that  was  left  of  Madame  Jeannin's  pride 
stirred  in  her,  and  she  vowed  that  at  least  her  daughter  should 
not  know  the  humiliation  she  had  to  undergo. 

In  vain  did  she  wear  herself  out  and  cut  down  their  ex- 
penses: what  she  earned  was  not  enough  to  keep  them  alive. 
They  had  to  sell  the  few  jewels  which  they  had  kept.  And 
the  worst  blow  of  all  came  when  the  money,  of  which  they  were 
in  such  sore  need,  was  stolen  from  Madame  Jeannin  the  very 
day  it  came  into  her  hands.  The  poor  flustered  creature  took 
it  into  her  head  while  she  was  out  to  go  into  the  Bon  Marclie, 
which  was  on  her  way:  it  was  Antoinette's  birthday  next  day, 
and  she  wanted  to  give  her  a  little  present.  She  was  carrying 


240  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

her  purse  in  her  hand  so  as  not  to  lose  it.  She  put  it  down 
mechanically  on  the  counter  for  a  moment  while  she  looked 
at  something.  When  she  put  out  her  hand  for  it  the  purse  was 
gone.  It  was  the  last  blow  for  her. 

A  few  days  later,  on  a  stifling  evening  at  the  end  of  August, 
— a  hot  steaming  mist  hung  over  the  town, — Madame  Jeannin 
came  in  from  her  copying  agency,  whither  she  had  been  to 
deliver  a  piece  of  work  that  was  wanted  in  a  hurry.  She  was 
late  for  dinner,  and  had  saved  her  three  sous'  bus  fare  by  hur- 
rying home  on  foot  to  prevent  her  children  being  anxious. 
When  she  reached  the  fourth  floor  she  could  neither  speak  nor 
breathe.  It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  returned  home  in 
that  condition:  the  children  took  no  notice  of  it.  She  forced 
herself  to  sit  down  at  table  with  them.  They  were  both  suf- 
fering from  the  heat  and  did  not  eat  anything:  they  had  to 
make  an  effort  to  gulp  down  a  few  morsels  of  food,  and  a  sip 
or  two  of  stale  water.  To  give  their  mother  time  to  recover 
they  did  not  talk — (they  had  no  desire  to  talk) — and  looked  out 
of  the  window. 

Suddenly  Madame  Jeannin  waved  her  hands  in  the  air, 
clutched  at  the  table,  looked  at  her  children,  moaned,  and  col- 
lapsed. Antoinette  and  Olivier  sprang  to  their  feet  just  in  time 
to  catch  her  in  their  arms.  They  were  beside  themselves,  and 
screamed  and  cried  to  her : 

"  Mother !     Mother !     Dear,  dear  mother !  " 

But  she  made  no  sound.  They  were  at  their  wit's  end.  An- 
toinette clung  wildly  to  her  mother's  body,  kissed  her,  called 
to  her.  Olivier  ran  to  the  door  of  the  flat  and  yelled : 

"  Help !    Help !  " 

The  housekeeper  came  running  upstairs,  and  when  she  saw 
what  had  happened  she  ran  for  a  doctor.  But  when  the  doctor 
arrived,  he  could  only  say  that  the  end  had  come.  Death  had 
been  instantaneous — happily  for  Madame  Jeannin — although  it 
was  impossible  to  know  what  thoughts  might  have  been  hers 
during  the  last  moments  when  she  knew  that  she  was  dying 
and  leaving  her  children  alone  in  such  misery. 


ANTOINETTE  241 

They  were  alone  to  bear  the  horror  of  the  catastrophe,  alone 
to  weep,  alone  to  perform  the  dreadful  duties  that  follow 
upon  death.  The  porter's  wife,  a  kindly  soul,  helped  them  a 
little:  and  people  came  from  the  convent  where  Madame  Jean- 
nin  had  taught :  but  they  were  given  no  real  sympathy. 

The  first  moments  brought  inexpressible  despair.  The  only 
thing  that  saved  them  was  the  very  excess  of  that  despair,  which 
made  Olivier  really  ill.  Antoinette's  thoughts  were  distracted 
from  her  own  suffering,  and  her  one  idea  was  to  save  her 
brother:  and  her  great,  deep  love  filled  Olivier  and  plucked 
him  back  from  the  violent  torment  of  his  grief.  Locked  in 
her  arms  near  the  bed  where  their  mother  was  lying  in  the 
glimmer  of  a  candle,  Olivier  said  over  and  over  again  that  they 
must  die,  that  they  must  both  die,  at  once:  and  he  pointed  to 
the  window.  In  Antoinette,  too,  there  was  the  dark  desire:  but 
she  fought  it  down:  she  wished  to  live.  .  .  . 

"Why?    Why?" 

"  For  her  sake,"  said  Antoinette — (she  pointed  to  her 
mother) . — "  She  is  still  with  us.  Think  .  .  .  after  all  that 
she  has  suffered  for  our  sake,  we  must  spare  her  the  crowning 
sorrow,  that  of  seeing  us  die  in  misery.  .  .  .  Ah !  "  (she  went 
on  emphatically).  .  .  .  "And  then,  we  must  not  give  way. 
I  will  not !  I  refuse  to  give  in.  You  must,  you  shall  be  happy, 
some  day ! " 

"  Never ! " 

"Yes.  You  shall  be  happy.  We  have  had  too  much  un- 
happiness.  A  change  will  come:  it  must.  You  shall  live  your 
life.  You  shall  have  children,  you  shall  be  happy,  you  shall, 
you  shall ! " 

"  How  are  we  to  live?    We  cannot  do  it.  ..." 

"  We  can.  What  is  it,  after  all  ?  We  have  to  live  somehow 
until  you  can  earn  your  living.  I  will  see  to  that.  You  will 
see:  I'll  do  it.  Ah!  If  only  mother  had  let  me  do  it,  as  I 
could  have  done.  ..." 

"  What  will  you  do  ?  I  will  not  have  you  degrading  your- 
self. You  could  not  do  it." 


248  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"  I  can.  .  .  .  And  there  is  nothing  humiliating  in  working 
for  one's  living — provided  it  be  honest  work.  Don't  you  worry 
about  it,  please.  You  will  see,  everything  will  come  right. 
You  shall  be  happy,  we  shall  be  happy:  dear  Olivier,  she  will 
be  happy  through  us.  ..." 

The  two  children  were  the  only  mourners  at  their  mother's 
grave.  By  common  consent  they  agreed  not  to  tell  the  Poyets : 
the  Poyets  had  ceased  to  exist  for  them :  they  had  been  too 
cruel  to  their  mother :  they  had  helped  her  to  her  death.  And, 
when  the  housekeeper  asked  them  if  they  had  no  other  rela- 
tions, they  replied : 

"  No.     Nobody." 

By  the  bare  grave  they  prayed  hand  in  hand.  They  set 
their  teeth  in  desperate  resolve  and  pride  and  preferred  their 
solitude  to  the  presence  of  their  callous  and  hypocritical  rela- 
tions.— They  returned  on  foot  through  the  throng  of  .people 
who  were  strangers  to  their  grief,  strangers  to  their  thoughts, 
strangers  to  their  lives,  and  shared  nothing  with  them  but  their 
common  language.  Antoinette  had  to  support  Olivier. 

They  took  a  tiny  flat  in  the  same  house  on  the  top  floor — 
two  little  attics,  a  narrow  hall,  which  had  to  serve  as  a  dining- 
room,  and  a  kitchen  that  was  more  like  a  cupboard.  They  could 
have  found  better  rooms  in  another  neighborhood :  but  it  seemed 
to  them  that  they  were  still  with  their  mother  in  that  house. 
The  housekeeper  took  an  interest  in  them  for  a  time:  but  she 
was  soon  absorbed  in  her  own  affairs  and  nobody  bothered  about 
them.  They  did  not  know  a  single  one  of  the  other  tenants: 
and  they  did  not  even  know  who  lived  next  door. 

Antoinette  obtained  her  mother's  post  as  music-teacher  at 
the  convent.  She  procured  other  pupils.  She  had  only^  one 
idea:  to  educate  her  brother  until  he  was  ready  for  the  Ecole 
Normale.  It  was  her  own  idea,  and  she  had  decided  upon  it 
after  mature  reflection:  she  had  studied  the  syllabus  and  asked 
about  it,  and  had  also  tried  to  find  out  what  Olivier  thought : — 
but  he  had  no  ideas,  and  she  chose  for  him.  Once  at  the  Ecole 
he  would  be  sure  of  a  living  for  the  rest  of  his  life, 


ANTOINETTE  243 

and  his  future  would  be  assured.  He  must  get  in,  somehow; 
whatever  it  cost,  they  would  have  to  keep  alive  till  then.  It 
meant  five  or  six  terrible  years:  they  would  win  through.  The 
idea  possessed  Antoinette,  absorbed  her  whole  life.  The  poor 
solitary  existence  which  she  must  lead,  which  she  saw  clearly 
mapped  out  in  front  of  her,  was  only  made  bearable  through 
the  passionate  exaltation  which  filled  her,  her  determination,  by 
all  means  in  her  power,  to  save  her  brother  and  make  him 
happy.  The  light-hearted,  gentle  girl  of  seventeen  or  eighteen 
was  transfigured  by  her  heroic  resolution :  there  was  in  her  an 
ardent  quality  of  devotion,  a  pride  of  battle,  which  no  one  had 
suspected,  herself  least  of  all.  In  that  critical  period  of  a 
woman's  life,  during  the  first  fevered  days  of  spring,  when  love 
fills  all  her  being,  and  like  a  hidden  stream  murmuring  beneath 
the  earth,  laves  her  soul,  envelops  it,  floods  it  with  tenderness, 
and  fills  it  with  sweet  obsessions,  love  appears  in  divers  shapes : 
demanding  that  she  should  give  herself,  and  yield  herself  up 
to  be  its  prey:  for  love  the  least  excuse  is  enough,  and  for  its 
profound  yet  innocent  sensuality  any  sacrifice  is  easy.  Love 
made  Antoinette  the  prey  of  sisterly  devotion. 

Her  brother  was  less  passionate  and  had  no  such  stay.  Be- 
sides, the  sacrifice  was  made  for  him,  it  was  not  he  who  was 
sacrificed — which  is  so  much  easier  and  sweeter  when  one  loves. 
He  was  weighed  down  with  remorse  at  seeing  his  sister  wearing 
herself  out  for  him.  He  would  tell  her  so,  and  she  would  reply : 

"  Ah !  My  dear !  .  .  .  But  don't  you  see  that  that  is  what 
keeps  me  going?  Without  you  to  trouble  me,  what  should  I 
have  to  live  for  ?  " 

He  understood.  He,  too,  in  Antoinette's  position,  would 
have  been  jealous  of  the  trouble  he  caused  her:  but  to  be  the 
cause  of  it!  .  .  .  That  hurt  his  pride  and  his  affection. 
And  what  a  burden  it  was  for  so  weak  a  creature  to  bear  such 
a  responsibility,  to  be  bound  to  succeed,  since  on  his  success 
his  sister  had  staked  her  whole  life !  The  thought  of  it  was  in- 
tolerable to  him,  and,  instead  of  spurring  him  on,  there  were 
times  when  it  robbed  him  of  all  energy.  And  yet  she  forced 


244  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

him  to  struggle  on,  to  work,  to  live,  as  he  never  would  have 
done  without  her  aid  and  insistence.  He  had  a  natural  pre- 
disposition towards  depression, — perhaps  even  towards  suicide: 
— perhaps  he  would  have  succumbed  to  it  had  not  his  sister 
wished  him  to  be  ambitious  and  happy.  He  suffered  from  the 
contradiction  of  his  nature:  and  yet  it  worked  his  salvation. 
He,  too,  was  passing  through  a  critical  age,  that  fearful  period 
when  thousands  of  young  men  succumb,  and  give  themselves 
up  to  the  aberrations  of  their  minds  and  senses,  and  for  two  or 
three  years'  folly  spoil  their  lives  beyond  repair.  If  he  had 
had  time  to  yield  to  his  thoughts  he  would  have  fallen  into  dis- 
couragement or  perhaps  taken  to  dissipation:  always  when  he 
turned  in  upon  himself  he  became  a  prey  to  his  morbid  dreams, 
and  disgust  with  life,  and  Paris,  and  the  impure  fermentation 
of  all  those  millions  of  human  beings  mingling  and  rotting  to- 
gether. But  the  sight  of  his  sister's  face  was  enough  to  dispel 
the  nightmare:  and  since  she  was  living  only  that  he  might 
live,  he  would  live,  yes,  he  would  be  happy,  in  spite  of  himself. 

So  their  lives  were  built  on  an  ardent  faith  fashioned  of 
stoicism,  religion,  and  noble  ambition.  All  their  endeavor  was 
directed  towards  the  one  end:  Olivier's  success.  Antoinette 
accepted  every  kind  of  work,  every  humiliation  that  was  offered 
her:  she  went  as  a  governess  to  houses  where  she  was  treated 
almost  as  a  servant:  she  had  to  take  her  pupils  out  for  walks, 
like  a  nurse,  wandering  about  the  streets  with  them  for  hours 
together  under  pretext  of  teaching  them  German.  In  her  love 
for  her  brother  and  her  pride  she  found  pleasure  even  in  such 
moral  suffering  and  weariness. 

She  would  return  home  worn  out  to  look  after  Olivier,  who 
was  a  day-boarder  at  his  school  and  only  came  home  in  the 
evening.  She  would  cook  their  dinner — a  wretched  dinner — 
on  the  gas-stove  or  over  a  spirit-lamp.  Olivier  had  never  any 
appetite  and  everything  disgusted  him,  and  his  gorge  would 
rise  at  the  food:  and  she  would  have  to  force  him  to  eat,  or 
cudgel  her  brains  to  invent  some  dish  that  would  catch  his  fancy, 
and  poor  Antoinette  was  by  no  means  a  good  cook.  And  when 


ANTOINETTE  245 

she  had  taken  a  great  deal  of  trouble  she  would  have  the  morti- 
fication of  hearing  him  declare  that  her  cooking  was  uneatable. 
It  was  only  after  moments  of  despair  at  her  cooking-stove, — 
those  moments  of  silent  despair  which  come  to  inexperienced 
young  housekeepers  and  poison  their  lives  and  sometimes  their 
sleep,  unknown  to  everybody — that  she  began  to  understand  it 
a  little. 

After  dinner,  when  she  had  washed  up  the  dishes — (he  would 
offer  to  help  her,  but  she  would  never  let  him), — she  would 
take  a  motherly  interest  in  her  brother's  work.  She  would  hear 
him  his  lessons,  read  his  exercises,  and  even  look  up  certain 
words  in  the  dictionary  for  him,  always  taking  care  not  to  ruffle 
up  his  sensitive  little  soul.  They  would  spend  the  evening  at 
their  one  table  at  which  they  had  both  to  eat  and  write.  He 
would  do  his  homework,  she  would  sew  or  do  some  copying. 
When  he  had  gone  to  bed  she  would  sit  mending  his  clothes 
or  doing  some  work  of  her  own. 

Although  they  had  difficulty  in  making  both  ends  meet, 
they  were  both  agreed  that  every  penny  they  could  put  by  should 
be  used  in  the  first  place  to  settle  the  debt  which  their  mother 
owed  to  the  Poyets.  It  was  not  that  the  Poyets  were  impor- 
tunate creditors :  they  had  given  no  sign  of  life :  they  never  gave 
a  thought  to  the  money,  which  they  counted  as  lost:  they 
thought  themselves  very  lucky  to  have  got  rid  of  their  un- 
desirable relatives  so  cheaply.  But  it  hurt  the  pride  and  filial 
piety  of  the  young  Jeannins  to  think  that  their  mother  should 
have  owed  anything  to  these  people  whom  they  despised.  They 
pinched  and  scraped:  they  economized  on  their  amusements,  on 
their  clothes,  on  their  food,  in  order  to  amass  the  two  hundred 
francs — an  enormous  sum  for  them.  Antoinette  would  have 
liked  to  have  done  the  saving  by  herself.  But  when  her  brother 
found  out  what  she  was  up  to,  nothing  could  keep  him  from 
doing  likewise.  They  wore  themselves  out  in  the  effort,  and 
were  delighted  when  they  could  set  aside  a  few  sous  a  day. 

In  three  years,  by  screwing  and  scraping,  sou  by  sou,  they 
had  succeeded  in  getting  the  sum  together.  It  was  a  great  joy 


246  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

to  them.  Antoinette  went  to  the  Poyets  one  evening.  She 
was  coldly  received,  for  they  thought  she  had  come  to  ask  for 
help.  They  thought  it  advisable  to  take  the  initiative:  and 
reproached  her  for  not  letting  them  have  any  news  of  them :  and 
not  having  even  told  them  of  the  death  of  her  mother,  and  not 
coming  to  them  when  she  wanted  help.  She  cut  them  short 
calmly  by  telling  them  that  she  had  no  intention  of  incommod- 
ing them :  she  had  come  merely  to  return  the  money  which  had 
been  borrowed  from  them :  and  she  laid  two  banknotes  on  the 
table  and  asked  for  a  receipt.  They  changed  their  tone  at  once, 
and  pretended  to  be  unwilling  to  accept  it:  they  were  feeling 
for  her  that  sudden  affection  which  comes  to  the  creditor  for 
the  debtor,  who,  after  many  years,  returns  the  loan  which  he 
had  ceased  to  reckon  upon.  They  inquired  where  she  was  liv- 
ing with  her  brother,  and  how  they  lived.  She  did  not  reply, 
asked  once  more  for  the  receipt,  said  that  she  was  in  a  hurry, 
bowed  coldly,  and  went  away.  The  Poyets  were  horrified  at 
the  girl's  ingratitude. 

Then,  when  she  was  rid  of  that  obsession,  Antoinette  went  on 
with  the  same  sparing  existence,  but  now  it  was  entirely  for  her 
brother's  sake.  Only  she  concealed  it  more  to  prevent  his 
knowing  it:  she  economized  on  her  clothes  and  sometimes  on 
her  food,  to  keep  her  brother  well-dressed  and  amused,  and  to 
make  his  life  pleasanter  and  gayer,  and  to  let  him  go  every  now 
and  then  to  a  concert,  or  to  the  opera,  which  was  Olivier's 
greatest  joy.  He  was  unwilling  to  go  without  her,  but  she 
would  always  make  excuses  for  not  going  so  that  he  should 
feel  no  remorse:  she  would  pretend  that  she  was  too  tired  and 
did  not  want  to  go  out:  she  would  even  go  so  far  as  to  say 
that  music  bored  her.  Her  fond  quibbles  would  not  deceive 
him:  but  his  boyish  selfishness  would  be  too  strong  for  him. 
He  would  go  to  the  theater:  once  inside,  he  would  be  filled 
with  remorse,  and  it  would  haunt  him  all  through  the  piece, 
and  spoil  his  pleasure.  One  Sunday,  when  she  had  packed 
him  off  to  the  Chdtelet  concert,  he  returned  half  an  hour  later, 
and  told  Antoinette  that  when  he  reached  the  Saint  Michel 


ANTOINETTE  247 

Bridge  he  had  not  the  heart  to  go  any  farther :  the  concert  did 
not  interest  him:  it  hurt  him  too  much  to  have  any  pleasure 
without  her.  Nothing  was  sweeter  to  Antoinette,  although 
she  was  sorry  that  her  brother  should  be  deprived  of  his  Sunday 
entertainment  because  of  her.  But  Olivier  never  regretted  it : 
when  he  saw  the  joy  that  lit  up  his  sister's  face  as  he  came  in,  a 
joy  that  she  tried  in  vain  to  conceal,  he  felt  happier  than  the 
most  lovely  music  in  the  world  could  ever  have  made  him. 
They  spent  the  afternoon  sitting  together  by  the  window,  he 
with  a  book  in  his  hand,  she  with  her  work,  hardly  reading  at  all, 
hardly  sewing  at  all,  talking  idly  of  things  that  interested 
neither  of  them.  Never  had  they  had  so  delightful  a  Sunday. 
They  agreed  that  they  would  never  go  alone  to  a  concert  again : 
they  could  never  enjoy  anything  alone. 

She  managed  secretly  to  save  enough  money  to  surprise 
and  delight  Olivier  with  a  hired  piano,  which,  on  the  hire- 
purchase  system  became  their  property  at  the  end  of  a  certain 
number  of  months.  The  payments  for  it  were  a  heavy  burden 
for  her  to  shoulder !  It  often  haunted  her  dreams,  and  she 
ruined  her  health  in  screwing  together  the  necessary  money. 
But,  folly  as  it  was,  it  did  assure  them  both  so  much  happiness. 
Music  was  their  Paradise  in  their  hard  life.  It  filled  an 
enormous  place  in  their  existence.  They  steeped  themselves 
in  music  so  as  to  forget  the  rest  of  the  world.  There  was  danger 
in  it  too.  Music  is  one  of  the  great  modern  dissolvents.  Its 
languorous  warmth,  like  the  heat  of  a  stove,  or  the  enervating 
air  of  autumn,  excites  the  senses  and  destroys  the  will.  But  it 
was  a  relaxation  for  a  creature  forced  into  excessive,  joyless 
activity  as  was  Antoinette.  The  Sunday  concert  was  the  only 
ray  of  light  that  shone  through  the  week  of  unceasing  toil. 
They  lived  in  the  memory  of  the  last  concert  and  the  eager 
anticipation  of  the  next,  in  those  few  hours  spent  outside  Paris 
and  out  of  the  vile  weather.  After  a  long  wait  outside  in  the 
rain,  or  the  snow,  or  the  wind  and  the  cold,  clinging  together, 
and  trembling  lest  all  the  places  should  be  taken,  they  would 
pass  into  the  theater,  where  they  were  lost  in  the  throng,  and 


248  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

sit  on  dark  uncomfortable  benches.  They  were  crushed  and 
stifling,  and  often  on  the  point  of  fainting  from  the  heat  and 
discomfort  of  it  all : — but  they  were  happy,  happy  in  their 
own  and  in  each  other's  pleasure,  happy  to  feel  coursing  through 
their  veins  the  flood  of  kindness,  light,  and  strength,  that  surged 
forth  from  the  great  souls  of  Beethoven  and  Wagner,  happy, 
each  of  them,  to  see  the  dear,  dear  face  light  up — the  poor, 
pale  face  worn  by  suffering  and  premature  anxieties.  An- 
toinette would  feel  so  tired  and  as  though  loving  arms  were 
about  her,  holding  her  to  a  motherly  breast!  She  would  nestle 
in  its  softness  and  warmth :  and  she  would  weep  quietly. 
Olivier  would  press  her  hand.  No  one  noticed  them  in  the 
dimness  of  the  vast  hall,  where  they  were  not  the  only  suffer- 
ing souls  taking  refuge  under  the  motherly  wing  of  Music. 

Antoinette  had  her  religion  to  support  her.  She  was  very 
pious,  and  every  day  never  missed  saying  her  prayers  fervently 
and  at  length,  and  every  Sunday  she  never  missed  going  to 
Mass.  Even  in  the  injustice  of  her  wretched  life  she  could 
not  help  believing  in  the  love  of  the  divine  Friend,  who  suffers 
with  you,  and,  some  day,  will  console  you.  Even  more  than 
with  God,  she  was  in  close  communion  with  the  beloved  dead, 
and  she  used  secretly  to  share  all  her  trials  with  them.  But  she 
was  of  an  independent  spirit  and  a  clear  intelligence :  she  stood 
apart  from  other  Catholics,  who  did  not  regard  her  altogether 
favorably :  they  thought  her  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit :  they  were 
not  far  from  regarding  her  as  a  Free  Thinker,  or  on  the  way  to 
it,  because,  like  the  honest  little  Frenchwoman  she  was,  she 
had  no  intention  of  renouncing  her  own  independent  judgment : 
she  believed  not  from  obedience,  like  the  base  rabble,  but  from 
love. 

Olivier  no  longer  believed.  The  slow  disintegration  of  his 
faith,  which  had  set  in  during  his  first  months  in  Paris,  had 
ended  in  its  complete  destruction.  He  had  suffered  cruelly: 
for  he  was  not  of  those  who  are  strong  enough  or  commonplace 
enough  to  dispense  with  faith :  and  so  he  had  passed  through 
crises  of  mental  agony.  But  he  was  at  heart  a  mystic:  and, 


ANTOINETTE  ,  249 

though  he  had  lost  his  belief,  yet  no  ideas  could  be  closer  to  his 
own  than  those  of  his  sister.  They  both  lived  in  a  religious 
atmosphere.  When  they  came  home  in  the  evening  after  the 
day's  parting  their  little  flat  was  to  them  a  haven,  an  in- 
violable refuge,  poor,  bitterly  cold,  but  pure.  How  far  re- 
moved they  felt  there  from  the  noise  and  the  corrupt  thoughts 
of  Paris !  .  .  . 

They  never  talked  much  of  their  doings:  for  when  one 
comes  home  tired  one  has  hardly  the  heart  to  revive  the  memory 
of  a  painful  day  by  the  tale  of  its  happenings.  Instinctively 
they  set  themselves  to  forget  it.  Especially  during  the  first 
hour  when  they  met  again  for  dinner  they  avoided  questions 
of  all  kinds.  They  would  greet  each  other  with  their  eyes: 
and  sometimes  they  would  not  speak  a  word  all  through  the 
meal.  Antoinette  would  look  at  her  brother  as  he  sat  dream- 
ing, just  as  he  used  to  do  when  he  was  a  little  boy.  She  would 
gently  touch  his  hand : 

"  Come !  "  she  would  say,  with  a  smile.     "  Courage !  " 

He  would  smile  too  and  go  on  eating.  So  dinner  would  pass 
without  their  trying  to  talk.  They  were  hungry  for  silence. 
Only  when  they  had  done  would  their  tongues  be  loosed  a 
little,  when  they  felt  rested,  and  when  each  of  them  in  the 
comfort  of  the  understanding  love  of  the  other  had  wiped 
out  the  impure  traces  of  the  day. 

Olivier  would  sit  down  at  the  piano.  Antoinette  was  out  of 
practice  from  letting  him  play  always :  for  it  was  the  only  re- 
laxation that  he  had :  and  he  would  give  himself  up  to  it  whole- 
heartedly. He  had  a  fine  temperament  for  music :  his  feminine 
nature,  more  suited  to  love  than  to  action,  with  loving  sym- 
pathy could  catch  the  thoughts  of  the  musicians  whose  works 
he  played,  and  merge  itself  in  them  and  with  passionate  fidelity 
render  the  finest  shades, — at  least,  within  the  limitations  of  his 
physical  strength,  which  gave  out  before  the  Titanic  effort  of 
Tristan,  or  the  later  sonatas  of  Beethoven.  He  loved  best  to 
take  refuge  in  Mozart  or  Gluck,  and  theirs  was  the  music  that 
Antoinette  preferred. 


250  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

Sometimes  she  would  sing  too,  but  only  very  simple  songs, 
old  melodies.  She  had  a  light  mezzo  voice,  plaintive  and  del- 
icate. She  was  so  shy  that  she  could  never  sing  in  company, 
and  hardly  even  hefore  Olivier:  her  throat  used  to  contract. 
There  was  an  air  of  Beethoven  set  to  some  Scotch  words,  of 
which  she  was  particularly  fond:  Faithful  Johnnie:  it  was 
calm,  so  calm  .  .  .  and  with  what  a  depth  of  tenderness! 
...  It  was  like  herself.  Olivier  could  never  hear  her  sing 
it  without  the  tears  coming  to  his  eyes. 

But  she  preferred  listening  to  her  brother.  She  would  hurry 
through  her  housework  and  leave  the  door  of  the  kitchen  open 
the  better  to  hear  Olivier :  but  in  spite  of  all  her  care  he  would 
complain  impatiently  of  the  noise  she  made  with  her  pots  and 
pans.  Then  she  would  close  the  door;  and,  when  she  had  fin- 
ished, she  would  come  and  sit  in  a  low  chair,  not  near  the  piano 
— (for  he  could  not  bear  any  one  near  him  when  he  was  play- 
ing),— but  near  the  fireplace:  and  there  she  would  sit  curled 
up  like  a  cat,  with  her  back  to  the  piano,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  golden  eyes  of  the  fire,  in  which  a  lump  of  coal  was 
smoldering,  and  muse  over  her  memories  of  the  past.  When 
nine  o'clock  rang  she  would  have  to  pull  herself  together  to 
remind  Olivier  that  it  was  time  to  stop.  It  would  be  hard  to 
drag  him,  and  to  drag  herself,  away  from  dreams:  but  Olivier 
would  still  have  some  work  to  do.  And  he  must  not  go  to  bed 
too  late.  He  would  not  obey  her  at  once:  he  always  needed 
a  certain  time  in  which  to  shake  free  of  the  music  before  he 
could  apply  himself  seriously  to  his  work.  His  thoughts  would 
be  off  wandering.  Often  it  would  be  half-past  nine  before  he 
could  shake  free  of  his  misty  dreams.  Antoinette,  bending  over 
her  work,  at  the  other  side  of  the  table,  would  know  that  he  was 
doing  nothing :  but  she  dared  not  look  in  his  direction  too  often 
for  fear  of  irritating  him  by  seeming  to  be  watching  him. 

He  was  at  the  ungrateful  age — the  happy  age — when  a  boy 
saunters  dreamily  through  his  days.  He  had  a  clear  forehead, 
girlish  eyes,  deep  and  trustful,  often  with  dark  circles  round 
them,  a  wide  mouth  with  rather  thick  pouting  lips,  a  rather 


ANTOINETTE  251 

crooked  smile,  vague,  absent,  taking:  he  wore  his  hair  long 
so  that  it  hung  down  almost  to  his  eyes,  and  made  a  great  bunch 
at  the  back  of  his  neck,  while  one  rebellious  lock  stuck  up  at 
the  back:  a  neckerchief  loosely  tied  round  his  neck — (his  sister 
used  to  tie  it  carefully  in  a  bow  every  morning)  : — a  waistcoat 
which  was  always  buttonless,  although  she  was  for  ever  sewing 
them  on:  no  cuffs:  large  hands  with  bony  wrists.  He  had  a 
heavy,  sleepy,  bantering  expression,  and  he  was  always  wool- 
gathering. His  eyes  would  blink  and  wander  round  An- 
toinette's room: — (his  work-table  was  in  her  room): — they 
would  light  on  the  little  iron  bed,  above  which  hung  an  ivory 
crucifix,  with  a  sprig  of  box, — on  the  portraits  of  his  father 
and  mother, — on  an  old  photograph  of  the  little  provincial  town 
with  its  tower  mirrored  in  its  waters.  And  when  they  reached 
his  sister's  pallid  face,  bending  in  silence  over  her  work,  he 
would  be  filled  with  an  immense  pity  for  her  and  anger  with 
himself:  then  he  would  shake  himself  in  annoyance  at  his  own 
indolence:  and  he  would  work  furiously  to  make  up  for  lost 
time. 

He  spent  his  holidays  in  reading.  They  would  read  together 
each  with  a  separate  book.  In  spite  of  their  love  for  each 
other  they  could  not  read  aloud.  That  hurt  them  as  an  offense 
against  modesty.  A  fine  book  was  to  them  as  a  secret  which 
should  only  be  murmured  in  the  silence  of  the  heart.  When 
a  passage  delighted  them,  instead  of  reading  it  aloud,  they 
would  hand  the  book  over,  with  a  finger  marking  the  place :  and 
they  would  say: 

"  Read  that." 

Then,  while  the  other  was  reading,  the  one  who  had  already 
read  would  with  shining  eyes  gaze  into  the  dear  face  to  see 
what  emotions  were  roused  and  to  share  the  enjoyment  of  it. 

But  often  with  their  books  open  in  front  of  them  they  would 
not  read :  they  would  talk.  Especially  towards  the  end  of  the 
evening  they  would  feel  the  need  of  opening  their  hearts,  and 
they  would  have  less  difficulty  in  talking.  Olivier  had  sad 
thoughts :  and  in  his  weakness  he  had  to  rid  himself  of  all  that 


253  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

tortured  him  by  pouring  out  his  troubles  to  some  one  else.  He 
was  a  prey  to  doubt.  Antoinette  had  to  give  him  courage,  to 
defend  him  against  himself:  it  was  an  unceasing  struggle, 
which  began  anew  each  day.  Olivier  would  say  bitter,  gloomy 
things:  and  when  he  had  said  them  he  would  be  relieved:  but 
he  never  troubled  to  think  how  they  might  hurt  his  sister. 
Only  very  late  in  the  day  did  he  see  how  he  was  exhausting  her : 
he  was  sapping  her  strength  and  infecting  her  with  his  own 
doubts.  Antoinette  never  let  it  appear  how  she  suffered.  She 
was  by  nature  valiant  and  gay,  and  she  forced  herself  to  main- 
tain a  show  of  gaiety,  even  when  that  gracious  quality  was  long 
since  dead  in  her.  She  had  moments  of  utter  weariness,  and 
revolt  against  the  life  of  perpetual  sacrifice  to  which  she  had 
pledged  herself.  But  she  condemned  such  thoughts  and  would 
not  analyze  them:  they  came  to  her  in  spite  of  herself,  and 
she  would  not  accept  them.  She  found  help  in  prayer,  except 
when  her  heart  could  not  pray — (as  sometimes  happens) — when 
it  was,  as  it  were,  withered  and  dry.  Then  she  could  only 
wait  in  silence,  feverish  and  ashamed,  for  the  return  of  grace. 
Olivier  never  had  the  least  suspicion  of  the  agony  she  suffered. 
At  such  times  Antoinette  would  make  some  excuse  and  go 
away  and  lock  herself  in  her  room :  and  she  would  not  appear 
again  until  the  crisis  was  over:  then  she  would  be  smiling, 
sorrowful,  more  tender  than  ever,  and,  as  it  were,  remorseful  for 
having  suffered. 

Their  rooms  were  adjoining.  Their  beds  were  placed  on 
either  side  of  the  same  wall:  they  could  talk  to  each  other 
through  it  in  whispers:  and  when  they  could  not  sleep  they 
would  tap  gently  on  the  wall  to  say: 

"Are  you  asleep?    I  can't  sleep." 

The  partition  was  so  thin  that  it  was  almost  as  though 
they  shared  the  same  room.  But  the  door  between  their  rooms 
was  always  locked  at  night,  in  obedience  to  an  instinctive  and 
profound  modesty, — a  sacred  feeling: — it  was  only  left  open 
when  Olivier  was  ill,  as  too  often  happened. 

He   did  not  gain  in  health.    Rather   he   seemed   to   grow 


ANTOINETTE  253 

weaker.  He  was  always  ailing:  throat,  chest,  head  or  heart:  if 
he  caught  the  slightest  cold  there  was  always  the  danger  of  its 
turning  to  bronchitis:  he  caught  scarlatina  and  almost  died  of 
it :  but  even  when  he  was  not  ill  he  would  betray  strange  symp- 
toms of  serious  illnesses,  which  fortunately  did  not  come  to  any- 
thing: he  would  have  pains  in  his  lungs  or  his  heart.  One  day 
the  doctor  who  examined  him  diagnosed  pericarditis,  or 
peripneumonia,  and  the  great  specialist  who  was  then  consulted 
confirmed  his  fears.  But  it  came  to  nothing.  It  was  his 
nerves  that  were  wrong,  and  it  is  common  knowledge  that  dis- 
orders of  the  nerves  take  the  most  unaccountable  shapes:  they 
are  got  rid  of  at  the  cost  of  days  of  anxiety.  But  such  days 
were  terrible  for  Antoinette,  and  they  gave  her  sleepless  nights. 
She  would  lie  in  a  state  of  terror  in  her  bed,  getting  up  every 
now  and  then  to  listen  to  her  brother's  breathing.  She  would 
think  that  perhaps  he  was  dying,  she  would  feel  sure,  convinced 
of  it:  she  would  get  up,  trembling,  and  clasp  her  hands,  and 
hold  them  fast  against  her  lips  to  keep  herself  from  crying  out. 

"  Oh !  God !  Oh !  God !  "  she  would  moan.  "  Take  him  not 
from  me!  Not  that  .  .  .  not  that.  You  have  no  right! 
.  .  .  Not  that,  oh!  God,  I  beg!  .  .  .  Oh,  mother,  mother! 
Come  to  my  aid!  Save  him:  let  him  live!  .  .  ." 

She  would  lie  at  full  stretch. 

"Ah!  To  die  by  the  way,  when  so  much  has  been  done, 
when  we  were  nearly  there,  when  he  was  going  to  be  happy  .  .  . 
no:  that  could  not  be:  it  would  be  too  cruel!  ..." 

It  was  not  long  before  Olivier  gave  her  other  reasons  for 
anxiety. 

He  was  profoundly  honest,  like  herself,  but  he  was  weak 
of  will  and  too  open-minded  and  too  complex  not  to  be  uneasy, 
skeptical,  indulgent  towards  what  he  knew  to  be  evil,  and  at- 
tracted by  pleasure.  Antoinette  was  so  pure  that  it  was  some 
time  before  she  understood  what  was  going  on  in  her  brother's 
mind.  She  discovered  it  suddenly,  one  day. 

Olivier  thought  she  was  out.     She  usually  had  a  lesson  at 


254  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

that  hour :  but  at  the  last  moment  she  had  received  word  from 
her  pupil,  telling  her  that  she  could  not  have  her  that  day. 
She  was  secretly  pleased,  although  it  meant  a  few  francs  less  in 
that  week's  earnings:  but  she  was  very  tired  and  she  lay  down 
on  her  bed :  she  was  very  glad  to  be  able  to  rest  for  once  without 
reproaching  herself.  Olivier  came  in  from  school  bringing 
another  boy  with  him.  They  sat  down  in  the  next  room  and 
began  to  talk.  She  could  hear  everything  they  said:  they 
thought  they  were  alone  and  did  not  restrain  themselves.  An- 
toinette smiled  as  she  heard  her  brother's  merry  voice.  But 
soon  she  ceased  to  smile,  and  her  blood  ran  cold.  They  were 
talking  of  dirty  things  with  an  abominable  crudity  of  ex- 
pression: they  seemed  to  revel  in  it.  She  heard  Olivier,  her 
boy  Olivier,  laughing:  and  from  his  lips,  which  she  had 
thought  so  innocent,  there  came  words  so  obscene  that  the 
horror  of  it  chilled  her.  Keen  anguish  stabbed  her  to  the  heart. 
It  went  on  and  on:  they  could  not  stop  talking,  and  she  could 
not  help  listening.  At  last  they  went  out,  and  Antoinette  was 
left  alone.  Then  she  wept:  something  had  died  in  her:  the 
ideal  image  that  she  had  fashioned  of  her  brother — of  her  boy — 
was  plastered  with  mud :  it  was  a  mortal  agony  to  her.  She 
did  not  say  anything  to  him  when  they  met  again  in  the  even- 
ing. He  saw  that  she  had  been  weeping  and  he  could  not  think 
why.  He  could  not  understand  why  she  had  changed  her 
manner  towards  him.  It  was  some  time  before  she  was  able 
to  recover  herself. 

But  the  worst  blow  of  all  for  her  was  one  evening  when  he 
did  not  come  home.  She  did  not  go  to  bed,  but  sat  up  waiting 
for  him.  It  was  not  only  her  moral  purity  that  was  hurt: 
her  suffering  went  down  to  the  most  mysterious  inner  depths 
of  her  heart — those  same  depths  where  there  lurked  the  most 
awful  feelings  of  the  human  heart,  feelings  over  which  she  cast 
a  veil,  to  hide  them  from  her  sight. 

Olivier's  first  aim  had  been  the  declaration  of  his  independ- 
ence. He  returned  in  the  morning,  casting  about  for  the  proper 
attitude  and  quite  prepared  to  fling  some  insolent  remark  at  his 


ANTOINETTE  255 

sister  if  she  had  said  anything  to  him.  He  stole  into  the  flat 
on  tiptoe  so  as  not  to  waken  her.  But  when  he  saw  her  stand- 
ing there,  waiting  for  him,  pale,  red-eyed  from  weeping,  when 
he  saw  that,  instead  of  making  any  effort  to  reproach  him,  she 
only  set  about  silently  cooking  his  breakfast,  before  he  left 
for  school,  and  that  she  had  nothing  to  say  to  him,  but  was 
overwhelmed,  so  that  she  was,  in  herself,  a  living  reproach,  he 
could  hold  out  no  longer:  he  flung  himself  down  before  her, 
buried  his  face  in  her  lap,  and  they  both  wept.  He  was 
ashamed  of  himself,  sick  at  the  thought  of  what  he  had  done: 
he  felt  degraded.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  she  would  not  let  him 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  lips :  and  he  kissed  her  hand.  They 
said  no  more :  they  understood  each  other.  Olivier  vowed  that 
he  would  never  again  do  anything  to  hurt  Antoinette,  and  that 
he  would  be  in  all  things  what  she  wanted  him  to  be.  But 
though  she  tried  bravely  she  could  not  so  easily  forget  so  sharp 
a  wound :  she  recovered  from  it  slowly.  There  was  a  certain 
awkwardness  between  them.  Her  love  for  him  was  just  the 
same:  but  in  her  brother's  soul  she  had  seen  something  that 
was  foreign  to  herself,  and  she  was  fearful  of  it. 

She  was  the  more  overwhelmed  by  the  glimpse  she  had  had 
into  Olivier's  inmost  heart,  in  that,  about  the  same  time,  she 
had  to  put  up  with  the  unwelcome  attentions  of  certain  men. 
When  she  came  home  in  the  evening  at  nightfall,  and  especially 
when  she  had  to  go  out  after  dinner  to  take  or  fetch  her  copy- 
ing, she  suffered  agonies  from  her  fear  of  being  accosted,  and 
followed  (as  sometimes  happened)  and  forced  to  listen  to  in- 
sulting advances.  She  took  her  brother  with  her  whenever 
she  could  under  pretext  of  making  him  take  a  walk :  but  he  only 
consented  grudgingly  and  she  dared  not  insist:  she  did  not  like 
to  interrupt  his  work.  She  was  so  provincial  and  so  pure  that 
she  could  not  get  used  to  such  ways.  Paris  at  night  was  to  her 
like  a  dark  forest  in  which  she  felt  that  she  was  being  tracked 
by  dreadful,  savage  beasts:  and  she  was  afraid  to  leave  the 
house.  But  she  had  to  go  out.  She  would  put  off  going  out 


256  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

as  long  as  possible:  she  was  always  fearful.  And  when  she 
thought  that  her  Olivier  would  be — was  perhaps — like  one  of 
those  men  who  pursued  her,  she  could  hardly  hold  out  her 
hand  to  him  when  she  came  in.  He  could  not  think  what  he 
had  done  to  change  her  so,  and  she  was  angry  with  herself. 

She  was  not  very  pretty,  but  she  had  charm,  and  attracted 
attention  though  she  did  nothing  to  do  so.  She  was  always 
very  simply  dressed,  almost  always  in  black:  she  was  not  very 
tall,  graceful,  frail-looking ;  she  rarely  spoke :  she  tripped  quietly 
through  the  crowded  streets,  avoiding  attention,  which,  how- 
ever, she  attracted  in  spite  of  herself  by  the  sweetness  of  the 
expression  of  her  tired  eyes  and  her  pure  young  lips.  Some- 
times she  saw  that  she  had  attracted  notice:  and  though  it  put 
her  to  confusion  she  was  pleased  all  the  same.  Who  can  say 
what  gentle  and  chaste  pleasure  in  itself  there  may  be  in  so  in- 
nocent a  creature  at  feeling  herself  in  sympathy  with  others? 
All  that  she  felt  was  shown  in  a  slight  awkwardness  in  her 
movements,  a  timid,  sidelong  glance:  and  it  was  sweet  to  see 
and  very  touching.  And  her  uneasiness  added  to  her  attrac- 
tion. She  excited  interest,  and,  as  she  was  a  poor  girl,  with 
none  to  protect  her,  men  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  her  so. 

Sometimes  she  used  to  go  to  the  house  of  some  rich  Jews, 
the  Nathans,  who  took  an  interest  in  her  because  they  had  met 
her  at  the  house  of  some  friends  of  theirs  where  she  gave  les- 
sons: and,  in  spite  of  her  shyness,  she  had  not  been  able  to 
avoid  accepting  invitations  to  their  parties.  M.  Alfred  Nathan 
was  a  well-known  professor  in  Paris,  a  distinguished  scientist, 
and  at  the  same  time  he  was  very  fond  of  society,  with  that 
strange  mixture  of  learning  and  frivolity  which  is  so  common 
among  the  Jews.  Madame  Nathan  was  a  mixture  in  equal  pro- 
portions of  real  kindliness  and  excessive  worldliness.  They 
were  both  generous,  with  loud-voiced,  sincere,  but  intermittent 
sympathy  for  Antoinette. — Generally  speaking  Antoinette  had 
found  more  kindness  among  the  Jews  than  among  the  members 
of  her  own  sect.  They  have  many  faults:  but  they  have  one 
great  quality — perhaps  the  greatest  of  all:  they  are  alive,  and 


ANTOINETTE  257 

human:  nothing  human  is  foreign  to  them  and  they  are  inter- 
ested in  every  living  being.  Even  when  they  lack  real,  warm 
sympathy  they  feel  a  perpetual  curiosity  which  makes  them  seek 
out  men  and  ideas  that  are  of  worth,  however  different  from 
themselves  they  may  be.  Not  that,  generally  speaking,  they  do 
anything  much  to  help  them,  for  they  are  interested  in  too 
many  things  at  once  and  much  more  a  prey  to  the  vanities  of 
the  world  than  other  people,  while  they  pretend  to  be  immune 
from  them.  But  at  least  they  do  something :  and  that  is  saying 
a  great  deal  in  the  present  apathetic  condition  of  society.  They 
are  an  active  balm  in  society,  the  very  leaven  of  life. — An- 
toinette who,  among  the  Catholics,  had  been  brought  sharp 
up  against  a  wall  of  icy  indifference,  was  keenly  alive  to  the 
worth  of  the  interest,  however  superficial  it  might  be,  which  the 
Nathans  took  in  her.  Madame  Nathan  had  marked  Antoinette's 
life  of  devoted  sacrifice:  she  was  sensible  of  her  physical  and 
moral  charm:  and  she  made  a  show  of  taking  her  under  her 
protection.  She  had  no  children:  but  she  loved  young  people 
and  often  had  gatherings  of  them  in  her  house :  and  she  insisted 
on  Antoinette's  coming  also,  and  breaking  away  from  her  soli- 
tude, and  having  some  amusement  in  her  life.  And  as  she 
had  no  difficulty  in  guessing  that  Antoinette's  shyness  was  in 
part  the  result  of  her  poverty,  she  even  went  so  far  as  to  offer 
to  give  her  a  pretty  frock  or  two,  which  Antoinette  refused 
proudly:  but  her  kindly  patroness  found  a  way  of  forcing  her 
to  accept  a  few  of  those  little  presents  which  are  so  dear  to  a 
woman's  innocent  vanity.  Antoinette  was  both  grateful  and 
embarrassed.  She  forced  herself  to  go  to  Madame  Nathan's 
parties  from  time  to  time:  and  being  young  she  managed  to 
enjoy  herself  in  spite  of  everything. 

But  in  that  rather  mixed  society  of  all  sorts  of  young 
people  Madame  Nathan's  protegee,  being  poor  and  pretty,  be- 
came at  once  the  mark  of  two  or  three  young  gentlemen,  who 
with  perfect  confidence  in  themselves  picked  her  out  for  their 
attentions.  They  calculated  how  far  her  timidity  would  go: 
they  even  made  bets  about  her. 


258  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

One  day  she  received  certain  anonymous  letters — or  rather 
letters  signed  with  a  noble  pseudonym — which  conveyed  a 
declaration  of  love:  at  first  they  were  love-letters,  flattering, 
ardent,  appointing  a  rendezvous:  then  they  quickly  became 
bolder,  threatening,  and  soon  insulting  and  basely  slanderous: 
they  stripped  her,  exposed  her,  besmirched  her  with  their  coarse 
expressions  of  desire:  they  tried  to  play  upon  Antoinette's 
simplicity  by  making  her  fearful  of  a  public  insult  if  she 
did  not  go  to  the  appointed  rendezvous.  She  wept  bitterly  at 
the  thought  of  having  called  down  on  herself  such  base  pro- 
posals :  and  these  insults  scorched  her  pride.  She  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  She  did  not  like  to  speak  to  her  brother  about 
it :  she  knew  that  he  would  feel  it  too  keenly  and  that  he  would 
make  the  affair  even  more  serious  than  it  was.  She  had  no 
friends.  The  police?  She  would  not  do  that  for  fear  of 
scandal.  But  somehow  she  had  to  make  an  end  of  it.  She 
felt  that  her  silence  would  not  sufficiently  defend  her,  that  the 
blackguard  who  was  pursuing  her  would  hold  to  the  chase  and 
that  he  would  go  on  until  to  go  farther  would  be  dangerous. 

He  had  just  sent  her  a  sort  of  ultimatum  commanding  her 
to  meet  him  next  day  at  the  Luxembourg.  She  went. — By 
racking  her  brains  she  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  her 
persecutor  must  have  met  her  at  Madame  Nathan's.  In  one 
of  his  letters  he  had  alluded  to  something  which  could  only 
have  happened  there.  She  begged  Madame  Nathan  to  do  her  a 
great  favor  and  to  drive  her  to  the  door  of  the  gallery  and  to 
wait  for  her  outside.  She  went  in.  In  front  of  the  appointed 
picture  her  tormentor  accosted  her  triumphantly  and  began 
to  talk  to  her  with  affected  politeness.  She  stared  straight  at 
him  without  a  word.  When  he  had  finished  his  remark  he 
asked  her  jokingly  why  she  was  staring  at  him.  She  replied : 

"  You  are  a  coward." 

He  was  not  put  out  by  such  a  trifle  as  that,  and  became 
familiar  in  his  manner.  She  said: 

"  You  have  tried  to  threaten  me  with  a  scandal.  Very  well, 
I  have  come  to  give  you  your  scandal.  You  have  asked  for  it ! " 


ANTOINETTE  259 

She  was  trembling  all  over,  and  she  spoke  in  a  loud  voice 
to  show  him  that  she  was  quite  equal  to  attracting  attention  to 
themselves.  People  had  already  begun  to  watch  them.  He  felt 
that  she  would  stick  at  nothing.  He  lowered  his  voice.  She 
said  once  more,  for  the  last  time : 

"  You  are  a  coward,"  and  turned  her  back  on  him. 

Not  wishing  to  seem  to  have  given  in  he  followed  her.  She 
left  the  gallery  with  the  fellow  following  hard  on  her  heels. 
She  walked  straight  to  the  carriage  waiting  there,  wrenched  the 
door  open,  and  her  pursuer  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
Madame  Nathan,  who  recognized  him  and  greeted  him  by  name. 
His  face  fell  and  he  bolted. 

Antoinette  had  to  tell  the  whole  story  to  her  companion. 
She  was  unwilling  to  do  so,  and  only  hinted  roughly  at  the 
facts.  It  was  painful  to  her  to  reveal  to  a  stranger  the  intimate 
secrets  of  her  life,  and  the  sufferings  of  her  injured  modesty. 
Madame  Nathan  scolded  her  for  not  having  told  her  before. 
Antoinette  begged  her  not  to  tell  anybody.  That  was  the  end 
of  it:  and  Madame  Nathan  did  not  even  need  to  strike  the  fel- 
low off  her  visiting  list :  for  he  was  careful  not  to  appear  again. 

About  the  same  time  another  sorrow  of  a  very  different  kind 
came  to  Antoinette. 

At  the  Nathans'  she  met  a  man  of  forty,  a  very  good  fel- 
low, who  was  in  the  Consular  service  in  the  Far  East,  and  had 
come  home  on  a  few  months'  leave.  He  fell  in  love  with  her. 
The  meeting  had  been  planned  unknown  to  Antoinette,  by 
Madame  Nathan,  who  had  taken  it  into  her  head  that  she 
must  find  a  husband  for  her  little  friend.  He  was  a  Jew.  He 
was  not  good-looking  and  he  was  no  longer  young.  He  was 
rather  bald  and  round-shouldered:  but  he  had  kind  eyes,  an 
affectionate  way  with  him,  and  he  could  feel  for  and  understand 
suffering,  for  he  had  suffered  himself.  Antoinette  was  no 
longer  the  romantic  girl,  the  spoiled  child,  dreaming  of  life  as 
a  lovely  day's  walk  on  her  lover's  arm :  now  she  saw  the  hard 
struggle  of  life,  which  began  again  every  day,  allowing  no  time 
for  rest,  or,  if  rest  were  taken,  it  might  be  to  lose  in  one  me- 


260  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

ment  all  the  ground  that  had  been  gained,  inch  by  inch,  through 
years  of  striving :  and  she  thought  it  would  be  very  sweet  to  be 
able  to  lean  on  the  arm  of  a  friend,  and  share  his  sorrows 
with  him,  and  be  able  to  close  her  eyes  for  a  little,  while  he 
watched  over  her.  She  knew  that  it  was  a  dream :  but  she  had 
not  had  the  courage  to  renounce  her  dream  altogether.  In  her 
heart  she  knew  quite  well  that  a  dowerless  girl  had  nothing  to 
hope  for  in  the  world  in  which  she  lived.  The  old  French  mid- 
dle-classes are  known  throughout  the  world  for  the  spirit  of 
sordid  interest  in  which  they  conduct  their  marriages.  The 
Jews  are  far  less  grasping  with  money.  Among  the  Jews  it  is 
no  uncommon  thing  for  a  rich  young  man  to  choose  a  poor 
girl,  or  a  young  woman  of  fortune  to  set  herself  passionately 
to  win  a  man  of  intellect.  But  in  the  French  middle-classes, 
Catholic  and  provincial  in  their  outlook,  almost  always  money 
woos  money.  And  to  what  end?  Poor  wretches,  they  have 
none  but  dull  commonplace  desires:  they  can  do  nothing  but 
eat,  yawn,  sleep — save.  Antoinette  knew  them.  She  had  ob- 
served their  ways  from  her  childhood  on.  She  had  seen  them 
with  the  eyes  of  wealth  and  the  eyes  of  poverty.  She  had  no 
illusions  left  about  them,  nor  about  the  treatment  she  had  to 
expect  from  them.  And  so  the  attentions  of  this  man  who 
had  asked  her  to  marry  him  came  as  an  unhoped  for  treasure  in 
her  life.  At  first  she  did  not  think  of  him  as  a  lover,  but 
gradually  she  was  filled  with  gratitude  and  tenderness  towards 
him.  She  would  have  accepted  his  proposal  if  it  had  not  meant 
following  him  to  the  colonies  and  consequently  leaving  her 
brother.  She  refused:  and  though  her  lover  understood  the 
magnanimity  of  her  reason  for  doing  so,  he  could  not  forgive 
her:  love  is  so  selfish,  that  the  lover  will  not  hear  of  being 
sacrificed  even  to  those  virtues  which  are  dearest  to  him  in  the 
beloved.  He  gave  up  seeing  her :  when  he  went  away  he  never 
wrote:  she  had  no  news  of  him  at  all  until,  five  or  six  months 
later,  she  received  a  printed  intimation,  addressed  in  his  hand, 
that  he  had  married  another  woman. 

Antoinette  felt  it  deeply.     She  was  broken-hearted,  and  she 


-  ANTOINETTE  261 

offered  up  her  suffering  to  God:  she  tried  to  persuade  herself 
that  she  was  justly  punished  for  having  for  one  moment  lost 
sight  of  her  one  duty,  to  devote  herself  to  her  brother :  and  she 
grew  more  and  more  wrapped  up  in  it. 

She  withdrew  from  the  world  altogether.  She  even  dropped 
going  to  the  Nathans',  for  they  were  a  little  cold  towards  her 
after  she  refused  the  marriage  which  they  had  arranged  for  her : 
they  too  refused  to  see  any  justification  for  her.  Madame 
Nathan  had  decided  that  the  marriage  should  take  place,  and 
her  vanity  was  hurt  at  its  missing  fire  through  Antoinette's 
fault.  She  thought  her  scruples  certainly  quite  praiseworthy, 
but  exaggerated  and  sentimental :  and  thereafter  she  lost  interest 
in  the  silly  little  goose.  It  was  necessary  for  her  always  to  be 
helping  people,  with  or  without  their  consent,  and  she  quickly 
found  another  protegee  to  absorb,  for  the  time  being,  all  the  in- 
terest and  devotion  which  she  had  to  expend. 

Olivier  knew  nothing  of  his  sister's  sad  little  romance.  He 
was  a  sentimental,  irresponsible  boy,  living  in  his  dreams  and 
fancies.  It  was  impossible  to  depend  on  him  in  spite  of  his 
intelligence  and  charm  and  his  very  real  tenderheartedness. 
Often  he  would  fling  away  the  results  of  months  of  work  by  his 
irresponsibility,  or  in  a  fit  of  discouragement,  or  by  some  boyish 
freak,  or  some  fancied  love  affair,  in  which  he  would  waste  all 
his  time  and  energy.  He  would  fall  in  love  with  a  pretty  face, 
that  he  had  seen  once,  with  coquettish  little  girls,  whom  perhaps 
he  once  met  out  somewhere,  though  they  never  paid  any  atten- 
tion to  him.  He  would  be  infatuated  with  something  he  had 
read,  a  poet,  or  a  musician:  he  would  steep  himself  in  their 
works  for  months  together,  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else 
and  the  detriment  of  his  studies.  He  had  to  be  watched  always, 
though  great  care  had  to  be  taken  that  he  did  not  know  it,  for  he 
was  easily  wounded.  There  was  always  a  danger  of  a  seizure. 
He  had  the  feverish  excitement,  tbe  want  of  balance,  the  uneasy 
trepidation,  that  are  often  found  in  those  who  have  a  consump- 
tive tendency.  The  doctor  had  not  concealed  the  danger  from 
Antoinette.  The  sickly  plant,  transplanted  from  the  provinces 


262  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

to  Paris,  needed  fresh  air  and  light.  Antoinette  could  not  pro- 
vide them.  They  had  not  enough  money  to  be  able  to  go  away 
from  Paris  during  the  holidays.  All  the  rest  of  their  year  every 
day  in  the  week  was  full,  and  on  Sundays  they  were  so  tired  that 
they  never  wanted  to  go  out,  except  to  a  concert. 

There  were  Sundays  in  the  summer  when  Antoinette  would 
make  an  effort  and  drag  Olivier  off  to  the  woods  outside  Paris, 
near  Chaville  or  Saint-Cloud.  But  the  woods  were  full  of  noisy 
couples,  singing  music-hall  songs,  and  littering  the  place  with 
greasy  bits  of  paper :  they  did  not  find  the  divine  solitude  which 
purifies  and  gives  rest.  And  in  the  evening  when  they  turned 
homewards  they  had  to  suffer  the  roar  and  clatter  of  the  trains, 
the  dirty,  crowded,  low,  narrow,  dark  carriages  of  the  suburban 
lines,  the  coarseness  of  certain  things  they  saw,  the  noisy,  sing- 
ing, shouting,  smelly  people,  and  the  reek  of  tobacco  smoke. 
Neither  Antoinette  nor  Olivier  could  understand  the  people,  and 
they  would  return  home  disgusted  and  demoralized.  Olivier 
would  beg  Antoinette  not  to  go  for  Sunday  walks  again: 
and  for  some  time  Antoinette  would  not  have  the  heart  to  go 
again.  And  then  she  would  insist,  though  it  was  even  more 
disagreeable  to  her  than  to  Olivier :  but  she  thought  it  necessary 
for  her  brother's  health.  She  would  force  him  to  go  out  once 
more.  But  their  new  experience  would  be  no  better  than  the 
last,  and  Olivier  would  protest  bitterly.  So  they  stayed  shut 
up  in  the  stifling  town,  and,  in  their  prison-yard,  they  sighed 
for  the  open  fields. 

Olivier  had  reached  the  end  of  his  schooldays.  The  exam- 
inations for  the  Ecole  Normale  were  over.  It  was  quite  time. 
Antoinette  was  very  tired.  She  was  counting  on  his  success: 
her  brother  had  everything  in  his  favor.  At  school  he  was 
regarded  as  one  of  the  best  pupils:  and  all  his  masters  were 
agreed  in  praising  his  industry  and  intelligence,  except  for  a 
certain  want  of  mental  discipline  which  made  it  difficult  for  him 
to  bend  to  any  sort  of  plan.  But  the  responsibility  of  it 
weighed  on  Olivier  so  heavily  that  he  lost  his  head  as  the  exam- 


ANTOINETTE  263 

ination  came  near.  He  was  worn  out,  and  paralyzed  by  the 
fear  of  failure,  and  a  morbid  shyness  that  crept  over  him.  He 
trembled  at  the  thought  of  appearing  before  the  examiners  in 
public.  He  had  always  suffered  from  shyness :  in  class  he  would 
blush  and  choke  when  he  had  to  speak :  at  first  he  could  hardly 
do  more  than  answer  his  name.  And  it  was  much  more  easy 
for  him  to  reply  impromptu  than  when  he  knew  that  he  was 
going  to  be  questioned :  the  thought  of  it  made  him  ill :  his 
mind  rushed  ahead  picturing  every  detail  of  the  ordeal  as  it 
would  happen:  and  the  longer  he  had  to  wait,  the  more  he  was 
obsessed  by  it.  It  might  be  said  that  he  passed  every  exam- 
ination at  least  twice:  for  he  passed  it  in  his  dreams  on  the 
night  before  and  expended  all  his  energy,  so  that  he  had  none 
left  for  the  real  examination. 

But  he  did  not  even  reach  the  viva  voce,  the  very  thought 
of  which  had  sent  him  into  a  cold  sweat  the  night  before.  In 
the  written  examination  on  a  philosophical  subject,  which  at 
any  ordinary  time  would  have  sent  him  flying  off,  he  could  not 
even  manage  to  squeeze  out  a  couple  of  pages  in  six  hours.  For 
the  first  few  hours  his  brain  was  empty;  he  could  think  of 
nothing,  nothing.  It  was  like  a  blank  wall  against  which  he 
hurled  himself  in  vain.  Then,  an  hour  before  the  end,  the 
wall  was  rent  and  a  few  rays  of  light  shone  through  the  crevices. 
He  wrote  an  excellent  short  essay,  but  it  was  not  enough  to 
place  him.  When  Antoinette  saw  the  despair  on  his  face  as  he 
came  out,  she  foresaw  the  inevitable  blow,  and  she  was  as 
despairing  as  he:  but  she  did  not  show  it.  Even  in  the  most 
desperate  situations  she  had  always  an  inexhaustible  capacity 
for  hope. 

Olivier  was  rejected. 

He  was  crushed  by  it.  Antoinette  pretended  to  smile  as 
though  it  were  nothing  of  any  importance:  but  her  lips 
trembled.  She  consoled  her  brother,  and  told  him  that  it  was 
an  easily  remedied  misfortune,  and  that  he  would  be  certain  to 
pass  next  year,  and  win  a  better  place.  She  did  not  tell  him 
how  vital  it  was  to  her  that  he  should  have  passed,  that  year, 


264  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

or  how  utterly  worn  out  she  felt  in  soul  and  body,  or  how  un- 
easy she  felt  about  fighting  through  another  year  like  that. 
But  she  had  to  go  on.  If  she  were  to  go  away  before  Olivier 
had  passed  he  would  never  have  the  courage  to  go  on  fighting, 
alone :  he  would  succumb. 

She  concealed  her  weariness  from  him,  and  even  redoubled 
her  efforts.  She  wore  herself  to  skin  and  bone  to  let  him  have 
amusement  and  change  during  the  holidays  so  that  he  might 
resume  work  with  greater  energy  and  confidence.  But  at  the 
very  outset  her  small  savings  had  to  be  broken  into,  and,  to 
make  matters  worse,  she  lost  some  of  her  most  profitable  pupils. 

Another  year!  .  .  .  Within  sight  of  the  final  ordeal  they 
were  almost  at  breaking-point.  Above  all,  they  had  to  live,  and 
discover  some  other  means  of  scraping  along.  Antoinette  ac- 
cepted a  situation  as  a  governess  in  Germany  which  had  been 
offered  her  through  the  Nathans.  It  was  the  very  last  thing  she 
would  have  thought  of,  but  nothing  else  offered  at  the  time,  and 
she  could  not  wait.  She  had  never  left  her  brother  for  a  single 
day  during  the  last  six  years:  and  she  could  not  imagine  what 
life  would  be  like  without  seeing  and  hearing  him  from  day  to 
day.  Olivier  was  terrified  when  he  thought  of  it :  but  he  dared 
not  say  anything:  it  was  he  who  had  brought  it  about:  if  he 
had  passed  Antoinette  would  not  have  been  reduced  to  such 
an  extremity:  he  had  no  right  to  say  anything,  or  to  take 
into  account  his  own  grief  at  the  parting:  it  was  for  her  to 
decide. 

They  spent  the  last  days  together  in  dumb  anguish,  as 
though  one  of  them  were  about  to  die :  they  hid  away  from  each 
other  when  their  sorrow  was  too  much  for  them.  Antoinette 
gazed  into  Olivier's  eyes  for  counsel.  If  he  had  said  to  her: 
"  Don't  go !  "  she  would  have  stayed,  although  she  had  to  go. 
Up  to  the  very  last  moment,  in  the  cab  in  which  they  drove  to 
the  station,  she  was  prepared  to  break  her  resolution:  she  felt 
that  she  could  never  go  through  with  it.  At  a  word  from  him, 
one  word!  .  .  .  But  he  said  nothing.  Like  her,  he  set  his 
teeth  and  would  not  budge. — She  made  him  promise  to  write  to 


ANTOINETTE  265 

her  every  day,  and  to  conceal  nothing  from  her,  and  to  send  for 
her  if  he  were  ever  in  the  least  danger. 

They  parted.  While  Olivier  returned  with  a  heavy  heart  to 
his  school,  where  it  had  been  agreed  that  he  should  board,  the 
train  carried  Antoinette,  crushed  and  sorrowful,  towards  Ger- 
many. Lying  awake  and  staring  through  the  night  they  felt 
the  minutes  dragging  them  farther  and  farther  apart,  and 
they  called  to  each  other  in  whispering  voices. 

Antoinette  was  fearful  of  the  new  world  to  which  she  was 
going.  She  had  changed  much  in  six  years.  She  who  had 
once  been  so  bold  and  afraid  of  nothing  had  grown  so  used  to 
silence  and  isolation  that  it  hurt  her  to  go  out  into  the  world 
again.  The  laughing,  gay,  chattering  Antoinette  of  the  old 
happy  times  had  passed  away  with  them.  Unhappiness  had 
made  her  sensitive  and  shy.  No  doubt  living  with  Olivier  had 
infected  her  with  his  timidity.  She  had  had  hardly  anybody 
to  talk  to  except  her  brother.  She  was  scared  by  the  least 
little  thing,  and  was  really  in  a  panic  when  she  had  to  pay  a 
call.  And  so  it  was  a  nervous  torture  to  her  to  think  that  she 
was  now  going  to  live  among  strangers,  to  have  to  talk  to  them, 
to  be  always  with  them.  The  poor  girl  had  no  more  real  voca- 
tion for  teaching  than  her  brother:  she  did  her  work  conscien- 
tiously, but  her  heart  was  not  in  it,  and  she  had  not  the  support 
of  feeling  that  there  was  any  use  in  it.  She  was  made  to  love 
and  not  to  teach.  And  no  one  cared  for  her  love. 

Nowhere  was  her  capacity  for  love  less  in  demand  than  in 
her  new  situation  in  Germany.  The  Griinebaums,  whose  chil- 
dren she  was  engaged  to  teach  French,  took  not  the  slightest 
interest  in  her.  They  were  haughty  and  familiar,  indifferent 
and  indiscreet:  they  paid  fairly  well:  and,  as  a  result,  they 
regarded  everybody  in  their  payment  as  being  under  an  obliga- 
tion to  them,  and  thought  they  could  do  just  as  they  liked. 
They  treated  Antoinette  as  a  superior  sort  of  servant  and  al- 
lowed her  hardly  any  liberty.  She  did  not  even  have  a  room 


266  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

to  herself:  she  slept  in  a  room  adjoining  that  of  the  children 
and  had  to  leave  the  door  open  all  night.  She  was  never  alone. 
They  had  no  respect  for  her  need  of  taking  refuge  every  now 
and  then  within  herself — the  sacred  right  of  every  human  being 
to  preserve  an  inner  sanctuary  of  solitude.  The  only  happiness 
she  had  lay  in  correspondence  and  communion  with  her  brother : 
she  made  use  of  every  moment  of  liberty  she  could  snatch.  But 
even  that  was  encroached  upon.  As  soon  as  she  began  to  write 
they  would  prowl  about  in  her  room  and  ask  her  what  she  was 
writing.  When  she  was  reading  a  letter  they  would  ask  her 
what  was  in  it:  by  their  persistent  impertinent  curiosity  they 
found  out  about  her  "  little  brother."  She  had  to  hide  from 
them.  Too  shameful  sometimes  were  the  expedients  to  which 
she  had  to  resort,  and  the  holes  and  crannies  in  which  she  had 
to  hide,  in  order  to  be  able  to  read  Olivier's  letters  unobserved. 
If  she  left  a  letter  lying  in  her  room  she  was  sure  it  would  be 
read :  and  as  she  had  nothing  she  could  lock  except  her  box,  she 
had  to  carry  any  papers  she  did  not  want  to  have  read  about 
with  her :  they  were  always  prying  into  her  business  and  her  in- 
timate affairs,  and  they  were  always  fishing  for  her  secret 
thoughts.  It  was  not  that  the  Griinebaums  were  really  inter- 
ested in  her,  only  they  thought  that,  as  they  paid  her,  she  was 
their  property.  They  were  not  malicious  about  it :  indiscretion 
was  with  them  an  incurable  habit:  they  were  never  offended 
with  each  other. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  intolerable  to  Antoinette  than 
such  espionage,  such  a  lack  of  moral  modesty,  which  made  it 
impossible  for  her  to  escape  even  for  an  hour  a  day  from  their 
curiosity.  The  Griinebaums  were  hurt  by  the  haughty  reserve 
with  which  she  treated  them.  Naturally  they  found  highly 
moral  reasons  to  justify  their  vulgar  curiosity,  and  to  condemn 
Antoinette's  desire  to  be  immune  from  it. 

"It  was  their  duty,"  they  thought,  "to  know  the  private 
life  of  a  girl  living  under  their  roof,  as  a  member  of  their 
household,  to  whom  they  had  intrusted  the  education  of  their 
children:  they  were  responsible  for  her." — (That  is  the  sort  of 


ANTOINETTE  267 

thing  that  so  many  mistresses  say  of  their  servants,  mistresses 
whose  "responsibility"  does  not  go  so  far  as  to  spare  the  un- 
happy girls  any  fatigue  or  work  that  must  revolt  them,  but 
is  entirely  limited  to  denying  them  every  sort  of  pleasure.)  — 
"  And  that  Antoinette  should  refuse  to  acknowledge  that  duty, 
imposed  on  them  by  conscience,  could  only  show,"  they  con- 
cluded, "  that  she  was  conscious  of  being  not  altogether  beyond 
reproach :  an  honest  girl  has  nothing  to  conceal." 

So  Antoinette  lived  under  a  perpetual  persecution,  against 
which  she  was  always  on  her  guard,  so  that  it  made  her  seem 
even  more  cold  and  reserved  than  she  was. 

Every  day  her  brother  wrote  her  a  twelve-page  letter :  and  she 
contrived  to  write  to  him  every  day  even  if  it  were  only  a  few 
lines.  Olivier  tried  hard  to  be  brave  and  not  to  show  his  grief 
too  clearly.  But  he  was  bored  and  dull.  His  life  had  always 
been  so  bound  up  with  his  sister's  that,  now  that  she  was  torn 
from  him,  he  seemed  to  have  lost  part  of  himself :  he  could  not 
use  his  arms,  or  his  legs,  or  his  brains,  he  could  not  walk,  or  play 
the  piano,  or  work,  or  do  anything,  not  even  dream — except 
through  her.  He  slaved  away  at  his  books  from  morning  to 
night :  but  it  was  no  good :  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere :  he 
would  be  suffering,  or  thinking  of  her,  or  of  the  morrow's  let- 
ter: he  would  sit  staring  at  the  clock,  waiting  for  the  day's 
letter :  and  when  it  arrived  his  fingers  would  tremble  with  joy — 
with  fear,  too — as  he  tore  open  the  envelope.  Never  did  lover 
tremble  with  more  tenderness  and  anxiety  at  a  letter  from  his 
mistress.  He  would  hide  away,  like  Antoinette,  to  read  his 
letters:  he  would  carry  them  about  with  him:  and  at  night  he 
always  had  the  last  letter  under  his  pillow,  and  he  would  touch 
it  from  time  to  time  to  make  sure  that  it  was  still  there,  during 
the  long,  sleepless  nights  when  he  lay  awake  dreaming  of  his 
dear  sister.  How  far  removed  from  her  he  felt!  He  felt  that 
most  dreadfully  when  Antoinette's  letters  were  delayed  by  the 
post  and  came  a  day  late.  Two  days,  two  nights,  between  them ! 
.  .  .  He  exaggerated  the  time  and  the  distance  because  he 
had  never  traveled.  His  imagination  would  take  fire : 


268  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"  Heavens !  If  she  were  to  fall  ill !  There  would  be  time 
for  her  to  die  before  he  could  see  her.  .  .  .  Why  had  she 
not  written  to  him,  just  a  line  or  two,  the  day  before?  .  .  . 
Was  she  ill?  .  .  .  Yes.  She  was  surely  ill.  ..."  He 
would  choke. — More  often  still  he  would  be  terrified  of  dying 
away  from  her,  dying  alone,  among  people  who  did  not  care, 
in  the  horrible  school,  in  grim,  gray  Paris.  He  would  make 
himself  ill  with  the  thought  of  it.  ...  "  Should  he  write 
and  tell  her  to  come  back  ?  " — But  then  he  would  be  ashamed 
of  his  cowardice.  Besides,  as  soon  as  he  began  to  write  to 
her  it  gave  him  such  joy  to  be  in  communion  with  her  that 
for  a  moment  he  would  forget  his  suffering.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  could  see  her,  hear  her  voice:  he  would  tell  her  every- 
thing :  never  had  he  spoken  to  her  so  intimately,  so  passionately, 
when  they  had  been  together :  he  would  call  her  "  my  true,  brave, 
dear,  kind,  beloved,  little  sister,"  and  say,  "  I  love  you  so." 
Indeed  they  were  real  love-letters. 

Their  tenderness  was  sweet  and  comforting  to  Antoinette: 
they  were  all  the  air  she  had  to  breathe.  If  they  did  not  come 
in  the  morning  at  the  usual  time  she  would  be  miserable.  Once 
or  twice  it  happened  that  the  Griinebaums,  from  carelessness,  or 
— who  knows? — from  a  wicked  desire  to  tease,  forgot  to  give 
them  to  her  until  the  evening,  and  once  even  until  the  next 
morning :  and  she  worked  herself  into  a  fever. — On  New  Year's 
Day  they  had  the  same  idea,  without  telling  each  other:  they 
planned  a  surprise,  and  each  sent  a  long  telegram — (at  vast  ex- 
pense)— and  their  messages  arrived  at  the  same  time. — Olivier 
always  consulted  Antoinette  about  his  work  and  his  troubles: 
Antoinette  gave  him  advice,  and  encouragement,  and  fortified 
him  with  her  strength,  though  indeed  she  had  not  really  enough 
for  herself. 

She  was  stifled  in  the  foreign  country,  where  she  knew  no- 
body, and  nobody  was  interested  in  her,  except  the  wife  of  a 
professor,  lately  come  to  the  town,  who  also  felt  out  of  her 
element.  The  good  creature  was  kind  and  motherly,  and  sym- 
pathetic with  the  brother  and  sister  who  loved  each  other  so 


ANTOINETTE  269 

and  had  to  live  apart — (for  she  had  dragged  part  of  her  story 
out  of  Antoinette)  : — but  she  was  so  noisy,  so  commonplace,  she 
was  so  lacking — though  quite  innocently — in  tact  and  discre- 
tion that  aristocratic  little  Antoinette  was  irritated  and  drew 
back.  She  had  no  one  in  whom  she  could  confide  and  so  all 
her  troubles  were  pent  up,  and  weighed  heavily  upon  her :  some- 
times she  thought  she  must  give  way  under  them:  but  she  set 
her  teeth  and  struggled  on.  Her  health  suffered:  she  grew 
very  thin.  Her  brother's  letters  became  more  and  more  down- 
hearted. In  a  fit  of  depression  he  wrote: 

"Come  back,  come  back,  come  back!   ..." 

But  he  had  hardly  sent  the  letter  off  than  he  was  ashamed 
of  it  and  wrote  another  begging  Antoinette  to  tear  up  the  first 
and  give  no  further  thought  to  it.  He  even  pretended  to  be  in 
good  spirits  and  not  to  be  wanting  his  sister.  It  hurt  his  um- 
brageous vanity  to  think  that  he  might  seem  incapable  of  doing 
without  her. 

Antoinette  was  not  deceived :  she  read  his  every  thought :  but 
she  did  not  know  what  to  do.  One  day  she  almost  went  to  him : 
she  went  to  the  station  to  find  out  what  time  the  train  left  for 
Paris.  And  then  she  said  to  herself  that  it  was  madness:  the 
money  she  was  earning  was  enough  to  pay  for  Olivier's  board: 
they  must  hold  on  as  long  as  they  could.  She  was  not  strong 
enough  to  make  up  her  mind :  in  the  morning  her  courage  would 
spring  forth  again :  but  as  the  day  dragged  towards  evening  her 
strength  would  fail  her  and  she  would  think  of  flying  to  him. 
She  was  homesick, — longing  for  the  country  that  had  treated 
her  so  hardly,  the  country  that  enshrined  all  the  relics  of  her 
past  life, — and  she  was  aching  to  hear  the  language  that  her 
brother  spoke,  the  language  in  which  she  told  her  love  for 
him. 

Then  it  was  that  a  company  of  French  actors  passed  through 
the  little  German  town.  Antoinette,  who  rarely  visited  the 
theater — (she  had  neither  time  nor  taste  for  it) — was  seized 
with  an  irresistible  longing  to  hear  her  own  language  spoken, 
to  take  refuge  in  France. 


270  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

The  rest  is  known.1 

There  were  no  seats  left  in  the  theater:  she  met  the  young 
musician,  Jean-Christophe,  whom  she  did  not  know,  and  he, 
seeing  her  disappointment,  offered  to  share  with  her  a  box  which 
he  had  to  give  away :  in  her  confusion  she  accepted.  Her  pres- 
ence with  Christophe  set  tongues  wagging  in  the  little  town :  and 
the  malicious  rumors  came  at  once  to  the  ears  of  the  Grune- 
baums,  who,  being  already  inclined  to  believe  anything  ill  of 
the  young  Frenchwoman,  and  furious  with  Christophe  as  a  re- 
sult of  certain  events  which  have  been  narrated  elsewhere,  dis- 
missed Antoinette  without  more  ado. 

She,  who  was  so  chaste  and  modest,  she,  whose  whole  life 
had  been  absorbed  by  her  love  for  her  brother  and  never  yet 
had  been  besmirched  with  one  thought  of  evil,  nearly  died  of 
shame,  when  she  understood  the  nature  of  the  charge  against 
her.  Not  for  one  moment  was  she  resentful  against  Chris- 
tophe. She  knew  that  he  was  as  innocent  as  she,  and  that,  if  he 
had  injured  her,  he  had  meant  only  to  be  kind :  she  was  grateful 
to  him.  She  knew  nothing  of  him,  save  that  he  was  a  musi- 
cian, and  that  he  was  much  maligned:  but,  in  her  ignorance 
of  life  and  men,  she  had  a  natural  intuition  about  people,  which 
unhappiness  had  sharpened,  and  in  her  queer,  boorish  companion 
she  had  recognized  a  quality  of  candor  equal  to  her  own,  and  a 
sturdy  kindness,  the  mere  memory  of  which  was  comforting  and 
good  to  think  on.  The  evil  she  had  heard  of  him  did  not  at  all 
affect  the  confidence  which  Christophe  had  inspired  in  her. 
Being  herself  a  victim  she  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  in  the 
same  plight,  suffering,  as  she  did,  though  for  a  longer  time, 
from  the  malevolence  of  the  townspeople  who  insulted  him. 
And  as  she  always  forgot  herself  in  the  thought  of  others  the 
idea  of  what  Christophe  must  have  suffered  distracted  her  mind 
a  little  from  her  own  torment.  Nothing  in  the  world  could 
have  induced  her  to  try  to  see  him  again,  or  to  write  to  him: 
her  modesty  and  pride  forbade  it.  She  told  herself  that  he  did 

JSee  Jean-Christophe— I,  "  Revolt." 


ANTOINETTE  271 

not  know  the  harm  he  had  done,  and,  in  her  gentleness,  she 
hoped  that  he  would  never  know  it. 

She  left  Germany.  An  hour  away  from  the  town  it  chanced 
that  the  train  in  which  she  was  traveling  passed  the  train  by 
which  Christophe  was  returning  from  a  neighboring  town  where 
he  had  been  spending  the  day. 

For  a  few  minutes  their  carriages  stopped  opposite  each 
other,  and  in  the  silence  of  the  night  they  saw  each  other,  but 
did  not  speak.  What  could  they  have  said  save  a  few  trivial 
words?  That  would  have  been  a  profanation  of  the  indefinable 
feeling  of  common  pity  and  mysterious  sympathy  which  had 
sprung  up  in  them,  and  was  based  on  nothing  save  the  sure- 
ness  of  their  inward  vision.  During  those  last  moments,  when, 
still  strangers,  they  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes,  they  saw  in 
each  other  things  which  never  had  appeared  to  any  other  soul 
among  the  people  with  whom  they  lived.  Everything  must  pass : 
the  memory  of  words,  kisses,  passionate  embraces:  but  the  con- 
tact of  souls,  which  have  once  met  and  hailed  each  other  amid 
the  throng  of  passing  shapes,  that  never  can  be  blotted  out. 
Antoinette  bore  it  with  her  in  the  innermost  recesses  of  her 
heart — that  poor  heart,  so  swathed  about  with  sorrow  and  sad 
thoughts,  from  out  the  midst  of  which  there  smiled  a  misty 
light,  which  seemed  to  steal  sweetly  from  the  earth,  a  pale  and 
tender  light  like  that  which  floods  the  Elysian  Shades  of  Gluck. 

She  returned  to  Olivier.  It  was  high  time  she  returned  to 
him.  He  had  just  fallen  ill:  and  the  poor,  nervous,  unhappy 
little  creature  who  trembled  at  the  thought  of  illness  before  it 
came — now  that  he  was  really  ill,  refused  to  write  to  his  sister 
for  fear  of  upsetting  her.  But  he  called  to  her,  prayed  for  her 
coming  as  for  a  miracle. 

When  the  miracle  happened  he  was  lying  in  the  school  in- 
firmary, feverish  and  wandering.  When  he  saw  her  he  made 
no  sound.  How  often  had  he  seen  her  enter  in  his  fevered 
fancy!  .  .  .  He  sat  up  in  bed,  gaping,  and  trembling  lest  it 
should  be  once  more  only  an  illusion.  And  when  she  sat  down 


272  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

on  the  bed  by  his  side,  when  she  took  him  in  her  arms  and  he 
had  taken  her  in  his,  when  he  felt  her  soft  cheek  against  his 
lips,  and  her  hands  still  cold  from  traveling  by  night  in  his, 
when  he  was  quite,  quite  sure  that  it  was  his  dear  sister  he  be- 
gan to  weep.  He  could  do  nothing  else :  he  was  still  the  "  little 
cry-baby "  that  he  had  been  when  he  was  a  child.  He  clung 
to  her  and  held  her  close  for  fear  she  should  go  away  from 
him  again.  How  changed  they  were!  How  sad  they  looked! 
...  No  matter !  They  were  together  once  more :  everything 
was  lit  up,  the  infirmary,  the  school,  the  gloomy  day :  they  clung 
to  each  other,  they  would  never  let  each  other  go.  Before  she 
had  said  a  word  he  made  her  swear  that  she  would  not  go 
away  again.  He  had  no  need  to  make  her  swear :  no,  she  would 
never  go  away  again:  they  had  been  too  unhappy  away  from 
each  other:  their  mother  was  right:  anything  was  better  than 
being  parted.  Even  poverty,  even  death,  so  only  they  were 
together. 

They  took  rooms.  They  wanted  to  take  their  old  little  flat, 
horrible  though  it  was:  but  it  was  occupied.  Their  new  rooms 
also  looked  out  on  to  a  yard:  but  above  a  wall  they  could  see 
the  top  of  a  little  acacia  and  grew  fond  of  it  at  once,  as  a 
friend  from  the  country,  a  prisoner  like  themselves,  in  the 
paved  wilderness  of  the  city.  Olivier  quickly  recovered  his 
health,  or  rather,  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  his  health: — 
(for  what  was  health  to  him  would  have  been  illness  to  a 
stronger  boy). — Antoinette's  unhappy  stay  in  Germany  had 
helped  her  to  save  a  little  money :  and  she  made  some  more  by 
the  translation  of  a  German  book  which  a  publisher  accepted. 
For  a  time,  then,  they  were  free  of  financial  anxiety:  and  all 
would  be  well  if  Olivier  passed  his  examination  at  the  end  of  the 
year. — But  if  he  did  not  pass  ? 

No  sooner  had  they  settled  down  to  the  happiness  of  being 
together  again  than  they  were  once  more  obsessed  by  the  pros- 
pect of  the  examination.  They  tried  hard  not  to  think  about 
it,  but  in  vain,  they  were  always  coming  back  to  it.  The  fixed 
idea  haunted  them,  even  when  they  were  seeking  distraction 


ANTOINETTE  273 

from  their  thoughts:  at  concerts  it  would  suddenly  leap  out 
at  them  in  the  middle  of  the  performance :  at  night  when  they 
woke  up  it  would  lie  there  like  a  yawning  gulf  before  them.  In 
addition  to  his  eagerness  to  please  his  sister  and  repay  her  for 
the  sacrifice  of  her  youth  that  she  had  made  for  his  sake, 
Olivier  lived  in  terror  of  his  military  service  which  he  could 
not  escape  if  he  were  rejected: — (at  that  time  admission  to  the 
great  schools  was  still  admitted  as  an  exemption  from  service) . — 
He  had  an  invincible  disgust  for  the  physical  and  moral 
promiscuity,  the  kind  of  intellectual  degradation,  which,  rightly 
or  wrongly,  he  saw  in  barrack-life.  Every  pure  and  aristocratic 
quality  in  him  revolted  from  such  compulsion,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  death  would  be  preferable.  In  these  days  it  is  per- 
mitted to  make  light  of  such  feelings,  and  even  to  decry  them 
in  the  name  of  a  social  morality  which,  for  the  moment,  has 
become  a  religion:  but  they  are  blind  who  deny  it:  there  is  no 
more  profound  suffering  than  that  of  the  violation  of  moral 
solitude  by  the  coarse  liberal  Communism  of  the  present 
day. 

The  examinations  began.  Olivier  was  almost  incapable  of 
going  in:  he  was  unwell,  and  he  was  so  fearful  of  the  torment 
he  would  have  to  undergo,  whether  he  passed  or  not,  that  he 
almost  longed  to  be  taken  seriously  ill.  He  did  quite  well  in 
the  written  examination.  But  he  had  a  cruel  time  waiting  to 
hear  the  results.  Following  the  immemorial  custom  of  the 
country  of  Revolutions,  which  is  the  worst  country  in  the  world 
for  red-tape  and  routine,  the  examinations  were  held  in  July 
during  the  hottest  days  of  the  year,  as  though  it  were  delib- 
erately intended  to  finish  off  the  luckless  candidates,  who  were 
already  staggering  under  the  weight  of  cramming  a  monstrous 
list  of  subjects,  of  which  even  the  examiners  did  not  know  a 
tenth  part.  The  written  examinations  were  held  on  the  day 
after  the  holiday  of  the  14th  July,  when  the  whole  city  was 
upside  down,  and  making  merry,  to  the  undoing  of  the  young 
men  who  were  by  no  means  inclined  to  be  merry,  and  asked  for 
nothing  but  silence.  In  the  square  outside  the  house  booths 


274  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

were  set  up,  rifles  cracked  at  the  miniature  ranges,  merry-go- 
rounds  creaked  and  grunted,  and  hideous  steam  organs  roared 
from  morning  till  night.  The  idiotic  noise  went  on  for  a  week. 
Then  a  President  of  the  Eepublic,  by  way  of  maintaining  his 
popularity,  granted  the  rowdy  merry-makers  another  three  days' 
holiday.  It  cost  him  nothing:  he  did  not  hear  the  row.  But 
Olivier  and  Antoinette  were  distracted  and  appalled  by  the 
noise,  and  had  to  keep  their  windows  shut,  so  that  their  rooms 
were  stifling,  and  stop  their  ears,  trying  vainly  to  escape  the 
shrill,  insistent,  idiotic  tunes  which  were  ground  out  from 
morning  till  night  and  stabbed  through  their  brains  like  daggers, 
so  that  they  were  reduced  to  a  pitiful  condition. 

The  viva  voce  examination  began  immediately  after  the  pub- 
lication of  the  first  results.  Olivier  begged  Antoinette  not  to 
go.  She  waited  at  the  door, — much  more  anxious  than  he.  Of 
course  he  never  told  her  what  he  thought  of  his  performance. 
He  tormented  her  by  telling  her  what  he  had  said  and  what  he 
had  not  said. 

At  last  the  final  results  were  published.  The  names  of  the 
candidates  were  posted  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Sorbonne.  An- 
toinette would  not  let  Olivier  go  alone.  As  they  left  the  house, 
they  thought,  though  they  did  not  say  it,  that  when  they  came 
back  they  would  know,  and  perhaps  they  would  regret  their 
present  fears,  when  at  least  there  was  still  hope.  When  they 
came  in  sight  of  the  Sorbonne  they  felt  their  legs  give  way  un- 
der them.  Brave  little  Antoinette  said  to  her  brother: 

"  Please  not  so  fast.   ..." 

Olivier  looked  at  his  sister,  and  she  forced  a  smile.     He  said : 

"  Shall  we  sit  down  for  a  moment  on  the  seat  here  ?  " 

He  would  gladly  have  gone  no  further.  But,  after  a  mo- 
ment, she  pressed  his  hand  and  said: 

"  It's  nothing,  dear.     Let  us  go  on." 

They  could  not  find  the  list  at  first.  They  read  several  others 
in  which  the  name  of  Jeannin  did  not  appear.  When  at  last 
they  saw  it,  they  did  not  take  it  in  at  first :  they  read  it  several 
times  and  could  not  believe  it-  Then  when  they  were  quite  sure 


ANTOINETTE  275 

that  it  was  true  that  Jeannin  was  Olivier,  that  Jeannin  had 
passed,  they  could  say  nothing:  they  hurried  home:  she  took 
his  arm,  and  held  his  wrist,  and  leaned  her  weight  on  him: 
they  almost  ran,  and  saw  nothing  of  what  was  going  on  about 
them:  as  they  crossed  the  boulevard  they  were  almost  run  over. 
They  said  over  and  over  again: 

"  Dear.  .    .    .     Darling.   .    .    .     Dear.  .    .    .     Dear.   ..." 

They  tore  upstairs  to  their  rooms  and  then  they  flung  their 
arms  round  each  other.  Antoinette  took  her  brother's  hand  and 
led  him  to  the  photographs  of  their  father  and  mother,  which 
hung  on  the  wall  near  her  bed,  in  a  corner  of  her  room,  which 
was  a  sort  of  sanctuary  to  her:  they  knelt  down  before  them: 
and  with  tears  in  their  eyes  they  prayed. 

Antoinette  ordered  a  jolly  little  dinner:  but  they  could  not 
eat  a  morsel :  they  were  not  hungry.  They  spent  the  evening, 
Olivier  kneeling  by  his  sister's  side  while  she  petted  him  like  a 
child.  They  hardly  spoke  at  all.  They  could  not  even  be 
happy,  for  they  were  too  worn  out.  They  went  to  bed  before 
nine  o'clock  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

Next  day  Antoinette  had  a  frightful  headache,  but  there 
was  such  a  load  taken  from  her  heart!  Olivier  felt,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  that  he  could  breathe  freely.  He  was 
saved,  she  was  saved,  she  had  accomplished  her  task :  and  he  had 
shown  himself  to  be  not  unworthy  of  his  sister's  expectations! 
.  .  .  For  the  first  time  for  years  and  years  they  allowed 
themselves  a  little  laziness.  They  stayed  in  bed  till  twelve 
talking  through  the  wall,  with  the  door  between  their  rooms 
open:  when  they  looked  in  the  mirror  they  saw  their  faces 
happy  and  tired-looking:  they  smiled,  and  threw  kisses  to  each 
other,  and  dozed  off  again,  and  watched  each  other's  sleep,  and 
lay  weary  and  worn  with  hardly  the  strength  to  do  more  than 
mutter  tender  little  scraps  of  words. 

Antoinette  had  always  put  by  a  little  money,  sou  by  sou, 
so  as  to  have  some  small  reserve  in  case  of  illness.  She  did  not 
tell  her  brother  the  surprise  she  had  m  store  for  him..  The  day 


276  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

after  his  success  she  told  him  that  they  were  going  to  spend  a 
month  in  Switzerland  to  make  up  for  all  their  years  of  trouble 
and  hardship.  Now  that  Olivier  was  assured  of  three  years  at 
the  JEcole  Normals  at  the  expense  of  the  State,  and  then,  when 
he  left  the  Ecole,  of  finding  a  post,  they  could  be  extravagant 
and  spend  all  their  savings.  Olivier  shouted  for  joy  when  she 
told  him.  Antoinette  was  even  more  happy  than  he, — happy 
in  her  brother's  happiness, — happy  to  think  that  she  was  going 
to  see  the  country  once  more :  she  had  so  longed  for  it. 

It  took  them  some  time  to  get  ready  for  the  journey,  but  the 
work  of  preparation  was  an  unending  joy.  It  was  well  on  in 
August  when  they  set  out.  They  were  not  used  to  traveling. 
Olivier  did  not  sleep  the  night  before.  And  he  did  not  sleep  in 
the  train.  The  whole  day  they  had  been  fearful  of  missing  the 
train.  They  were  in  a  feverish  hurry,  they  had  been  jostled 
about  at  the  station,  and  finally  huddled  into  a  second-class  car- 
riage, where  they  could  not  even  lean  back  to  go  to  sleep: — 
(that  is  one  of  the  privileges  of  which  the  eminently  demo- 
cratic French  companies  deprive  poor  travelers,  so  that  rich 
travelers  may  have  the  pleasure  of  thinking  that  they  have  a 
monopoly  of  it). — Olivier  did  not  sleep  a  wink:  he  was  not  sure 
that  they  were  in  the  right  train,  and  he  looked  out  for  the  name 
of  every  station.  Antoinette  slept  lightly  and  woke  up  very 
frequently :  the  jolting  of  the  train  made  her  head  bob.  Olivier 
watched  her  by  the  light  of  the  funereal  lamp,  which  shone  at 
the  top  of  the  moving  sarcophagus :  and  he  was  suddenly  struck 
by  the  change  in  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  hollow :  her  childish 
lips  were  half -open  from  sheer  weariness:  her  skin  was  sallow, 
and  there  were  little  wrinkles  on  her  cheeks,  the  marks  of  the 
sad  years  of  sorrow  and  disillusion.  She  looked  old  and  ill. — 
And,  indeed,  she  was  so  tired !  If  she  had  dared  she  would  have 
postponed  their  journey.  But  she  did  not  like  to  spoil  her 
brother's  pleasure :  she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  she  was  only 
tired,  and  that  the  country  would  make  her  well  again.  She 
was  fearful  lest  she  should  fall  ill  on  the  way. — She  felt  that  he 
was  looking  at  her:  and  she  suddenly  flung  off  the  drowsiness 


ANTOINETTE  277 

that  was  creeping  over  her,  and  opened  her  eyes, — eyes  still 
young,  still  clear  and  limpid,  across  which,  from  time  to  time, 
there  passed  an  involuntary  look  of  pain,  like  shadows  on  a 
little  lake.  He  asked  her  in  a  whisper,  anxiously  and  tenderly, 
how  she  was :  she  pressed  his  hand  and  assured  him  that  she  was 
well.  A  word  of  love  revived  her. 

Then,  when  the  rosy  dawn  tinged  the  pale  country  between 
Dole  and  Pontarlier,  the  sight  of  the  waking  fields,  and  the 
gay  sun  rising  from  the  earth, — the  sun,  who,  like  themselves, 
had  escaped  from  the  prison  of  the  streets,  and  the  grimy  houses, 
and  the  thick  smoke  of  Paris : — the  waving  fields  wrapped  in  the 
light  mist  of  their  milk-white  breath:  the  little  things  they 
passed :  a  little  village  belfry,  a  glimpse  of  a  winding  stream,  a 
blue  line  of  hills  hovering  on  the  far  horizon:  the  tinkling, 
moving  sound  of  the  angelus  borne  from  afar  on  the  wind, 
when  the  train  stopped  in  the  midst  of  the  sleeping  country :  the 
solemn  shapes  of  a  herd  of  cows  browsing  on  a  slope  above  the 
railway, — all  absorbed  Antoinette  and  her  brother,  to  whom  it  all 
seemed  new.  They  were  like  parched  trees,  drinking  in  ecstasy 
the  rain  from  heaven. 

Then,  in  the  early  morning,  they  reached  the  Swiss  Customs, 
where  they  had  to  get  out.  A  little  station  in  a  bare  country- 
side. They  were  almost  worn  out  by  their  sleepless  night,  and 
the  cold,  dewy  freshness  of  the  dawn  made  them  shiver:  but  it 
was  calm,  and  the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  fragrant  air  of  the 
fields  was  about  them,  upon  their  lips,  on  their  tongues,  down 
their  throats,  flowing  down  into  their  lungs  like  a  cooling 
stream:  and  they  stood  by  a  table,  out  in  the  open  air,  and 
drank  comforting  hot  coffee  with  creamy  milk,  heavenly  sweet, 
and  tasting  of  the  grass  and  the  flowers  of  the  fields. 

They  climbed  up  into  the  Swiss  carriage,  the  novel  arrange- 
ment of  which  gave  them  a  childish  pleasure.  But  Antoinette 
was  so  tired !  She  could  not  understand  why  she  should  feel  so 
ill.  Why  was  everything  about  her  so  beautiful,  so  absorbing, 
when  she  could  take  so  little  pleasure  in  it  ?  Was  it  not  all  just 
what  she  had  been  dreaming  for  years:  a  journey  with  her 


278  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

brother,  with  all  anxiety  for  the  future  left  behind,  dear  mother 
Nature?  .  .  .  What  was  the  matter  with  her?  She  was  an- 
noyed with  herself,  and  forced  herself  to  admire  and  share  her 
brother's  naive  delight. 

They  stopped  at  Thun.  They  were  to  go  up  into  the 
mountains  next  day.  But  that  night  in  the  hotel,  Antoinette 
was  stricken  with  a  fever,  and  violent  illness,  and  pains  in  her 
head.  Olivier  was  at  his  wits'  ends,  and  spent  a  night  of 
frightful  anxiety.  He  had  to  send  for  a  doctor  in  the  morning 
—  (an  unforeseen  expense  which  was  no  light  tax  on  their 
slender  purse). — The  doctor  could  find  nothing  immediately 
serious,  but  said  that  she  was  run  down,  and  that  her  constitu- 
tion was  undermined.  There  could  be  no  question  of  their  go- 
ing on.  The  doctor  forbade  Antoinette  to  get  up  all  day:  and 
he  thought  they  would  perhaps  have  to  stay  at  Thun  for  some 
time.  They  were  very  downcast — though  very  glad  to  have  got 
off  so  cheaply  after  all  their  fears.  But  it  was  hard  to  have 
come  so  far  to  be  shut  up  in  a  nasty  hotel-room  into  which  the 
sunlight  poured  so  that  it  was  like  a  hothouse.  Antoinette  in- 
sisted on  her  brother  going  out.  He  went  a  few  yards  from  the 
hotel,  saw  the  beautiful  green  Aar,  and,  hovering  in  the  distance 
against  the  sky,  a  white  peak :  he  bubbled  over  with  joy :  but  he 
could  not  keep  it  to  himself.  He  rushed  back  to  his  sister's 
room,  and  told  her  excitedly  what  he  had  just  seen:  and  when 
she  expressed  her  surprise  at  his  coming  back  so  soon  and  made 
him  promise  to  go  out  again,  he  said,  as  once  before  he  had  said 
when  he  came  back  from  the  Chdtelet  concert : 

"  No,  no.  It  is  too  beautiful :  it  hurts  me  to  see  it  without 
you." 

That  feeling  was  not  new  to  them:  they  knew  that  they 
had  to  be  together  to  enjoy  anything  wholly.  But  they  always 
loved  to  hear  it  said.  His  tender  words  did  Antoinette  more 
good  than  any  medicine.  She  smiled  now,  languidly,  happily. 
— And  after  a  good  night,  although  it  was  not  very  wise  to  go  on 
so  soon,  she  decided  that  they  would  get  away  very  early,  with- 
out telling  the  doctor,  who  would  only  want  to  keep  them  back. 


ANTOINETTE  279 

The  pure  air  and  the  joy  of  seeing  so  much  beauty  made  her 
stronger,  so  that  she  did  not  have  to  pay  for  her  rashness, 
and  without  any  further  misadventure  they  reached  the  end 
of  their  journey — a  mountain  village,  high  above  the  lake,  some 
distance  away  from  Spiez. 

There  they  spent  three  or  four  weeks  in  a  little  hotel.  An- 
toinette did  not  have  any  further  attack  of  fever,  but  she  never 
got  really  well.  She  still  felt  a  heaviness,  an  intolerable  weight, 
in  her  head,  and  she  was  always  unwell.  Olivier  often  asked 
her  about  her  health :  he  longed  to  see  her  grow  less  pale :  but  he 
was  intoxicated  by  the  beauty  of  the  country,  and  instinctively 
avoided  all  melancholy  thoughts:  when  she  assured  him  that 
she  was  really  quite  well,  he  tried  to  believe  that  it  was  true, — 
although  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  it  was  not  so.  And  she 
enjoyed  to  the  full  her  brother's  exuberance  and  the  fine  air,  and 
the  all-pervading  peace.  How  good  it  was  to  rest  at  last  after 
those  terrible  years! 

Olivier  tried  to  induce  her  to  go  for  walks  with  him:  she 
would  have  been  happy  to  join  him:  but  on  several  occasions 
when  she  had  bravely  set  out,  she  had  been  forced  to  stop  after 
twenty  minutes,  to  regain  her  breath,  and  rest  her  heart.  So 
he  went  out  alone, — climbing  the  safe  peaks,  though  they  filled 
her  with  terror  until  he  came  home  again.  Or  they  would  go 
for  little  walks  together:  she  would  lean  on  his  arm,  and  walk 
slowly,  and  they  would  talk,  and  he  would  suddenly  begin  to 
chatter,  and  laugh,  and  discuss  his  plans,  and  make  quips  and 
jests.  From  the  road  on  the  hillside  above  the  valley  they  would 
watch  the  white  clouds  reflected  in  the  still  lake,  and  the  boats 
moving  like  insects  on  the  surface  of  a  pond :  they  would  drink 
in  the  warm  air  and  the  music  of  the  goat-bells,  borne  on  the 
gusty  wind,  and  the  smell  of  the  new-mown  hay  and  the  warm 
resin.  And  they  would  dream  together  of  the  past  and  the 
future,  and  the  present  which  seemed  to  them  to  be  the  most 
unreal  and  intoxicating  of  dreams.  Sometimes  Antoinette  would 
be  infected  with  her  brother's  jolly  childlike  humor:  they 
would  chase  each  other  and  roll  about  on  the  grass.  And  one 


280  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

day  he  saw  her  laughing  as  she  used  to  do  when  they  were 
children,  madly,  carelessly,  laughter  clear  and  bubbling  as  a 
spring,  such  as  he  had  not  heard  for  many  years. 

But,  most  often,  Olivier  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of 
going  for  long  walks.  He  would  be  sorry  for  it  at  once,  and 
later  he  had  bitterly  to  regret  that  he  had  not  made  enough 
of  those  dear  days  with  his  sister.  Even  in  the  hotel  he  would 
often  leave  her  alone.  There  was  a  party  of  young  men  and 
girls  in  the  hotel,  from  whom  they  had  at  first  kept  apart. 
Then  Olivier  was  attracted  by  them,  and  shyly  joined  their 
circle.  He  had  been  starved  of  friendship :  outside  his  sister 
he  had  hardly  known  any  one  but  his  rough  schoolfellows  and 
their  girls,  who  repelled  him.  It  was  very  sweet  to  him  to 
be  among  well-mannered,  charming,  merry  boys  and  girls  of 
his  own  age.  Although  he  was  very  shy,  he  was  naively  curious, 
sentimental,  and  affectionate,  and  easily  bewitched  by  the  little 
burning,  flickering  fires  that  shine  in  a  woman's  eyes.  And  in 
spite  of  his  shyness,  women  liked  him.  His  frank  longing  to 
love  and  be  loved  gave  him,  unknown  to  himself,  a  youthful 
charm,  and  made  him  find  words  and  gestures  and  affectionate 
little  attentions,  the  very  awkwardness  of  which  made  them  all 
the  more  attractive.  He  had  the  gift  of  sympathy.  Although 
in  his  isolation  his  intelligence  had  taken  on  an  ironical  tinge 
which  made  him  see  the  vulgarity  of  people  and  their  defects, 
which  he  often  loathed, — yet  in  their  presence  he  saw  nothing 
but  their  eyes,  in  which  he  would  see  the  expression  of  a  liv- 
ing being,  who  one  day  would  die,  a  being  who  had  only  one 
life,  even  as  he,  and,  even  as  he,  would  lose  it  all  too  soon: 
then  of  that  creature  he  would  involuntarily  be  fond:  in  that 
moment  nothing  in  the  world  could  make  him  do  anything  to 
hurt :  whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  he  had  to  be  kind  and  amiable. 
He  was  weak:  and,  in  being  so,  he  was  sure  to  please  the 
"world"  which  pardons  every  vice,  and  even  every  virtue, — 
except  one :  force,  on  which  all  the  rest  depend. 

Antoinette  did  not  join  them.  Her  health,  her  tiredness,  her 
apparently  causeless  moral  collapse,  paralyzed  her.  Through 


ANTOINETTE  281 

the  long  years  of  anxiety  and  ceaseless  toil,  exhausting  body  and 
soul,  the  positions  of  the  brother  and  sister  had  been  inverted: 
now  it  was  she  who  felt  far  removed  from  the  world,  far 
from  everything  and  everybody,  so  far!  .  .  .  She  could  not 
break  down  the  wall  between  them:  all  their  chatter,  their 
noise,  their  laughter,  their  little  interests,  bored  her,  wearied 
her,  almost  hurt  her.  It  hurt  her  to  be  so :  she  would  have  loved 
to  go  with  the  other  girls,  to  share  their  interests  and  laugh 
with  them.  .  .  .  But  she  could  not!  .  .  .  Her  heart 
ached ;  she  seemed  to  be  as  one  dead.  In  the  evening  she  would 
shut  herself  up  in  her  room;  and  often  she  would  not  even 
turn  on  the  light:  she  would  sit  there  in  the  dark,  while  down- 
stairs Olivier  would  be  amusing  himself,  surrendering  to  the 
current  of  one  of  those  romantic  little  love  affairs  to  which  he 
so  easily  succumbed.  She  would  only  shake  off  her  torpor  when 
she  heard  him  coming  upstairs,  laughing  and  talking  to  the 
girls,  hanging  about  saying  good-night  outside  their  rooms,  be- 
ing unable  to  tear  himself  away.  Then  in  the  darkness  An- 
toinette would  smile,  and  get  up  to  turn  on  the  light.  The 
sound  of  her  brother's  laughter  revived  her. 

Autumn  was  setting  in.  The  sun  was  dying  down.  Nature 
was  a-weary.  Under  the  thick  mists  and  clouds  of  October 
the  colors  were  fading  fast ;  snow  fell  on  the  mountains :  mists 
descended  upon  the  plains.  The  visitors  went  away  one  by 
one,  and  then  several  at  a  time.  And  it  was  sad  to  see  even 
the  friends  of  a  little  while  going  away,  but  sadder  still  to  see 
the  passing  of  the  summer,  the  time  of  peace  and  happiness 
which  had  been  an  oasis  in  their  lives.  They  went  for  a  last 
walk  together,  on  a  cloudy  autumn  day,  through  the  forest  on 
the  mountain-side.  They  did  not  speak:  they  mused  sadly,  as 
they  walked  along  with  the  collars  of  their  cloaks  turned  up, 
clinging  close  together:  their  hands  were  locked.  There  was 
silence  in  the  wet  woods,  and  in  silence  the  trees  wept.  From 
the  depths  there  came  the  sweet  plaintive  cry  of  a  solitary  bird 
who  felt  the  coming  of  winter.  Through  the  mist  came  the 
clear  tinkling  of  the  goat-bells,  far  away,  so  faint  they  could 


282  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

hardly  hear  it,  so  faint  it  was  as  though  it  came  up  from  their 
inmost  hearts.   .    .    . 

They  returned  to  Paris.  They  were  both  sad.  Antoinette 
was  no  better. 

They  had  to  set  to  work  to  prepare  Olivier's  wardrobe  for 
the  Ecole.  Antoinette  spent  the  last  of  her  little  store  of 
money,  and  even  sold  some  of  her  jewels.  What  did  it  matter? 
He  would  repay  her  later  on.  And  then,  she  would  need  so 
little  when  he  was  gone  from  her!  .  .  .  She  tried  not  to 
think  of  what  it  would  be  like  when  he  was  gone:  she  worked 
away  at  his  clothes,  and  put  into  the  work  all  the  tenderness 
she  had  for  her  brother,  and  she  had  a  presentiment  that  it 
would  be  the  last  thing  she  would  do  for  him. 

During  the  last  days  together  they  were  never  apart:  they 
were  fearful  of  wasting  the  tiniest  moment.  On  their  last 
evening  they  sat  up  very  late  by  the  fireside,  Antoinette  occu- 
pying the  only  armchair,  and  Olivier  a  stool  at  her  feet,  and 
she  made  a  fuss  of  him  like  the  spoiled  child  he  was.  He  was 
dreading — though  he  was  curious  about  it,  too — the  new  life 
upon  which  he  was  to  enter.  Antoinette  thought  only  that  it 
was  the  end  of  their  dear  life  together,  and  wondered  fearfully 
what  would  become  of  her.  As  though  he  were  trying  to  make 
the  thought  even  more  bitter  for  her,  he  was  more  tender  than 
ever  he  had  been,  with  the  innocent  instinctive  coquetry  of 
those  who  always  wait  until  they  are  just  going  to  show  them- 
selves at  their  best  and  most  charming.  He  went  to  the  piano 
and  played  her  their  favorite  passages  from  Mozart  and  Gluck — 
those  visions  of  tender  happiness  and  serene  sorrow  with  which 
so  much  of  their  past  life  was  bound  up. 

When  the  time  came  for  them  to  part,  Antoinette  accom- 
panied Olivier  as  far  as  the  gates  of  the  J^coZe.  Then  she  re- 
turned. Once  more  she  was  alone.  But  now  it  was  not,  as 
when  she  had  gone  away  to  Germany,  a  separation  which  she 
could  bring  to  an  end  at  will  when  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
Now  it  was  she  who  remained  behind,  he  who  went  away :  it  was 


ANTOINETTE  283 

he  who  had  gone  away,  for  a  long,  long  time — perhaps  for  life. 
And  yet  her  love  for  him  was  so  maternal  that  at  first  she 
thought  less  of  herself  than  of  him :  she  thought  only  of  how 
different  the  first  few  days  would  be  for  him,  of  the  strict  rules 
of  the  Ecole,  and  was  preoccupied  with  those  harmless  little 
worries  which  so  easily  assume  alarming  proportions  in  the 
minds  of  people  who  live  alone  and  are  always  tormenting 
themselves  about  those  whom  they  love.  Her  anxiety  did  at 
least  have  this  advantage,  that  it  distracted  her  thoughts  from 
her  own  loneliness.  She  had  already  begun  to  think  of  the  half- 
hour  when  she  would  be  able  to  see  him  next  day  in  the  vis- 
itors' room.  She  arrived  a  quarter  of  an  hour  too  soon.  He 
was  very  nice  to  her,  hut  he  was  altogether  taken  up  with  all 
the  new  things  he  had  seen.  And  during  the  following  days, 
when  she  went  to  see  him,  full  of  the  most  tender  anxiety,  the 
contrast  between  what  those  meetings  meant  for  her  and  what 
they  meant  for  him  was  more  and  more  marked.  For  her  they 
were  her  whole  life.  For  Olivier — no  doubt  he  loved  Antoinette 
dearly :  but  it  was  too  much  to  expect  him  to  think  only  of  her, 
as  she  thought  of  him.  Once  or  twice  he  came  down  late  to  the 
visitors'  room.  One  day,  when  she  asked  him  if  he  were  at  all 
unhappy,  he  said  that  he  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  Such  little 
things  as  that  stabbed  Antoinette  to  the  heart. — She  was  angry 
with  herself  for  being  so  sensitive,  and  accused  herself  of 
selfishness:  she  knew  quite  well  that  it  would  be  absurd,  even 
wrong  and  unnatural,  for  him  to  be  unable  to  do  without  her, 
and  for  her  to  be  unable  to  do  without  him,  and  to  have  no 
other  object  in  life.  Yes:  she  knew  all  that.  But  what  waa 
the  good  of  her  knowing  it?  She  could  not  help  it  if  for  the 
last  ten  years  her  whole  life  had  been  bound  up  in  that  one  idea : 
her  brother.  Now  that  the  one  interest  of  her  life  had  been  torn 
from  her,  she  had  nothing  left. 

She  tried  bravely  to  keep  herself  occupied  and  to  take  up 
her  music  and  read  her  beloved  books.  .  .  .  But  alas! 
how  empty  were  Shakespeare  and  Beethoven  without  Olivier  I 
.,  .  . — Yes :  no  doubt  they  were  beautiful.  .  .  .  But  Olivier 


284  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

was  not  there.  What  is  the  good  of  beautiful  things  if  the  eyes 
of  the  beloved  are  not  there  to  see  them?  What  is  the  use  of 
beauty,  what  is  the  use  even  of  joy,  if  they  cannot  be  won 
through  the  heart  of  the  beloved? 

If  she  had  been  stronger  she  would  have  tried  to  build  up 
her  life  anew,  and  give  it  another  object.  But  she  was  at  the 
end  of  her  tether.  Now  that  there  was  nothing  to  force  her  to 
hold  on,  at  all  costs,  the  effort  of  will  to  which  she  had  sub- 
jected herself  snapped:  she  collapsed.  The  illness,  which  had 
been  gaining  grip  on  her  for  over  a  year,  during  which  she 
had  fought  it  down  by  force  of  will,  was  now  left  to  take  its 
course. 

She  spent  her  evenings  alone  in  her  room,  by  the  spent  fire, 
a  prey  to  her  thoughts:  she  had  neither  the  courage  to  light 
the  fire  again,  nor  the  strength  to  go  to  bed :  she  would  sit  there 
far  into  the  night,  dozing,  dreaming,  shivering.  She  would  live 
through  her  life  again,  and  summon  up  the  beloved  dead  and 
her  lost  illusions:  and  she  would  be  terribly  sad  at  the  thought 
of  her  lost  youth,  without  love  or  hope  of  love.  A  dumb,  aching 
sorrow,  obscure,  unconfessed.  ...  A  child  laughed  in  the 
street:  its  little  feet  pattered  up  to  the  floor  below.  ...  Its 
little  feet  trampled  on  her  heart.  .  .  .  She  would  be  beset 
with  doubts  and  evil  thoughts;  her  soul  in  its  weakness  would 
be  contaminated  by  the  soul  of  that  city  of  selfish  pleasure. — 
She  would  fight  down  her  regrets,  and  burn  with  shame  at 
certain  longings  which  she  thought  evil  and  wicked:  she  could 
not  understand  what  it  was  that  hurt  her  so,  and  attributed 
it  to  her  evil  instincts.  Poor  little  Ophelia,  devoured  by  a 
mysterious  evil,  she  felt  with  horror  dark  and  uneasy  desires 
mounting  from  the  depths  of  her  being,  from  the  very  pit  of  life. 
She  could  not  work,  and  she  had  given  up  most  of  her  pupils: 
she,  who  was  so  plucky,  and  had  always  risen  so  early,  now  lay 
in  bed  sometimes  until  the  afternoon:  she  had  no  more  reason 
for  getting  up  than  for  going  to  bed :  she  ate  little  or  nothing. 
Only  on  her  brother's  holidays — Thursday  afternoons  and  Sun- 
days— she  would  make  an  effort  to  be  her  old  self  with  him. 


ANTOINETTE  285 

He  saw  nothing.  He  was  too  much  taken  up  with  his  new 
life  to  notice  his  sister  much.  He  was  at  that  period  of  boy- 
hood when  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  be  communicative,  and 
he  always  seemed  to  be  indifferent  to  things  outside  himself 
which  would  only  be  his  concern  in  later  days. — People  of  riper 
years  sometimes  seem  to  be  more  open  to  impressions,  and 
to  take  a  simpler  delight  in  life  and  Nature,  than  young  people 
between  twenty  and  thirty.  And  so  it  is  often  said  that  young 
people  are  not  so  young  in  heart  as  they  were,  and  have  lost  all 
sense  of  enjoyment.  That  is  often  a  mistaken  idea.  It  is  not 
because  they  have  no  sense  of  enjoyment  that  they  seem  less 
sensitive.  It  is  because  their  whole  being  is  often  absorbed  by 
passion,  ambition,  desire,  some  fixed  idea.  When  the  body  is 
worn  and  has  no  more  to  expect  from  life,  then  the  emotions 
become  disinterested  and'  fall  into  their  place;  and  then  once 
more  the  source  of  childish  tears  is  reopened. — Olivier  was  pre- 
occupied with  a  thousand  little  things,  the  most  outstanding  of 
which  was  an  absurd  little  passion, —  (he  was  always  a  victim 
to  them), — which  so  obsessed  him  as  to  make  him  blind  and  in- 
different to  everything  else. — Antoinette  did  not  know  what  was 
happening  to  her  brother :  she  only  saw  that  he  was  drawing 
away  from  her.  That  was  not  altogether  Olivier's  fault.  Some- 
times when  he  came  he  would  be  glad  to  see  her  and  start  talk- 
ing. He  would  come  in.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  he  would  dry 
up.  Her  affectionate  anxiety,  the  eagerness  with  which  she  clung 
to  him,  and  drank  in  his  words,  and  overwhelmed  him  with  lit- 
tle attentions, — all  her  excess  of  tenderness  and  querulous  de- 
votion would  deprive  him  utterly  of  any  desire  to  be  warm  and 
open  with  her.  He  might  have  seen  that  Antoinette  was  not  in 
a  normal  condition.  Nothing  could  be  farther  from  her  usual 
tact  and  discretion.  But  he  never  gave  a  thought  to  it.  He 
would  reply  to  her  questions  with  a  curt  "  Yes  "  or  "  No."  He 
would  grow  more  stiff  and  surly,  the  more  she  tried  to  win  him 
over :  sometimes  even  he  would  hurt  her  by  some  brusque  reply. 
Then  she  would  be  crushed  and  silent.  Their  day  together 


286  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

would  slip  by,  wasted.  But  hardly  had  he  set  foot  outside  the 
house  on  his  way  back  to  the  Ecole  than  he  would  be  heartily 
ashamed  of  his  treatment  of  her.  He  would  torture  himself 
all  night  as  he  lay  awake  thinking  of  the  pain  he  had  caused 
her.  Sometimes  even,  as  soon  as  he  reached  the  ficole,  he  would 
write  an  effusive  letter  to  his  sister. — But  next  morning,  when 
he  read  it  through,  he  would  tear  it  up.  And  Antoinette  would 
know  nothing  at  all  about  it.  She  would  go  on  thinking  that 
he  had  ceased  to  love  her. 

She  had — if  not  one  last  joy — one  last  flutter  of  tenderness 
and  youth,  when  her  heart  beat  strongly  once  more;  one  last 
awakening  of  love  in  her,  and  hope  of  happiness,  hope  of  life. 
It  was  quite  ridiculous,  so  utterly  unlike  her  tranquil  nature! 
It  could  never  have  been  but  for  her  abnormal  condition,  the 
state  of  fear  and  over-excitement  which  was  the  precursor  of 
illness. 

She  went  to  a  concert  at  the  Chdtelet  with  her  brother.  As 
he  had  just  been  appointed  musical  critic  to  a  little  Review, 
they  were  in  better  places  than  those  they  occupied  in  old  days, 
but  the  people  among  whom  they  sat  were  much  more  apathetic. 
They  had  stalls  near  the  stage.  Christophe  Krafft  was  to  play. 
Neither  of  them  had  ever  heard  of  the  German  musician. 
When  she  saw  him  come  on,  the  blood  rushed  to  her  heart. 
Although  her  tired  eyes  could  only  see  him  through  a  mist, 
she  had  no  doubt  when  he  appeared :  he  was  the  unknown  young 
man  of  her  unhappy  days  in  Germany.  She  had  never  men- 
tioned him  to  her  brother:  and  she  had  hardly  even  admitted 
his  existence  to  her  thoughts:  she  had  been  entirely  absorbed 
by  the  anxieties  of  her  life  since  then.  Besides,  she  was  a  rea- 
sonable little  Frenchwoman,  and  refused  to  admit  the  existence 
of  an  obscure  feeling  which  she  could  not  trace  to  its  source, 
while  it  seemed  to  lead  nowhere.  There  was  in  her  a  whole 
region  of  the  soul,  of  unsuspected  depths,  wherein  there  slept 
many  other  feelings  which  she  would  have  been  ashamed  to 
behold:  she  knew  that  they  were  there:  but  she  looked  away 


ANTOINETTE  28? 

from  them  in  a  sort  of  religious  terror  of  that  Being  within 
herself  which  lies  beyond  the  mind's  control. 

When  she  had  recovered  a  little,  she  borrowed  her  brother's 
glasses  to  look  at  Christophe :  she  saw  him  in  profile  at  the  con- 
ductor's stand,  and  she  recognized  his  expression  of  forceful 
concentration.  He  was  wearing  a  shabby  old  coat  which  fitted 
him  very  badly. — Antoinette  sat  in  silent  agony  through  the 
vagaries  of  that  lamentable  concert  when  Christophe  joined 
issue  with  the  unconcealed  hostility  of  his  audience,  who  were 
at  the  time  ill-disposed  towards  German  artists,  and  actively 
bored  by  his  music.  And  when  he  appeared,  after  a  symphony 
which  had  seemed  unconscionably  long,  to  play  some  piano 
music,  he  was  received  with  cat-calls  which  left  no  room  for 
doubt  as  to  their  displeasure  at  having  to  put  up  with  him 
again.  However,  he  began  to  play  in  the  face  of  the  bored 
resignation  of  his  audience:  but  the  uncomplimentary  remarks 
exchanged  in  a  loud  voice  by  two  men  in  the  gallery  went  on, 
to  the  great  delight  of  the  rest  of  the  audience.  Then  he  broke 
off :  and  in  a  childish  fit  of  temper  he  played  Malbrouck  sen  va 
t'en  guerre  with  one  finger,  got  up  from  the  piano,  faced  the 
audience,  and  said : 

"  That  is  all  you  are  fit  for." 

The  audience  were  for  a  moment  so  taken  aback  that  they 
did  not  quite  take  in  what  the  musician  meant.     Then  there 
was  an  outburst  of  angry  protests.     Followed  a  terrible  uproar. 
They  hissed  and  shouted : 
"  Apologize !     Make  him  apologize !  " 

They  were  all  red  in  the  face  with  anger,  and  they  blew  out 
their  fury — tried  to  persuade  themselves  that  they  were  really 
enraged:  as  perhaps  they  were,  but  the  chief  thing  was  that 
they  were  delighted  to  have  a  chance  of  making  a  row,  and  let- 
ting themselves  go :  they  were  like  schoolboys  after  a  few  hours 
in  school. 

Antoinette  could  not  move:  she  was  petrified:  she  sat  still 
tugging  at  one  of  her  gloves.  Ever  since  the  last  bars  of 
the  symphony  she  had  had  a  growing  presentiment  of  what 


288  JEAtf-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

would  happen :  she  felt  the  blind  hostility  of  the  audience,  felt  it 
growing:  she  read  Christophe's  thoughts,  and  she  was  sure 
he  would  not  go  through  to  the  end  without  an  explosion :  she  sat 
waiting  for  the  explosion  while  agony  grew  in  her :  she  stretched 
every  nerve  to  try  to  prevent  it;  and  when  at  last  it  came,  it 
was  so  exactly  what  she  had  foreseen  that  she  was  overwhelmed 
by  it,  as  by  some  fatal  catastrophe  against  which  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  And  as  she  gazed  at  Christophe,  who  was 
staring  insolently  at  the  howling  audience,  their  eyes  met. 
Christophe's  eyes  recognized  her,  greeted  her,  for  the  space  of 
perhaps  a  second :  but  he  was  in  such  a  state  of  excitement  that 
his  mind  did  not  recognize  her  (he  had  not  thought  of  her  for 
long  enough).  He  disappeared  while  the  audience  yelled  and 
hissed. 

She  longed  to  cry  out:  to  say  or  do  something:  but  she 
was  bound  hand  and  foot,  and  could  not  stir;  it  was  like  a 
nightmare.  It  was  some  comfort  to  her  to  hear  her  brother 
at  her  side,  and  to  know  that,  without  having  any  idea  of  what 
was  happening  to  her,  he  had  shared  her  agony  and  indignation. 
Olivier  was  a  thorough  musician,  and  he  had  an  independence  of 
taste  which  nothing  could  encroach  upon:  when  he  liked  a 
thing,  he  would  have  maintained  Ms  liking  in  the  face  of 
the  whole  world.  With  the  very  first  bars  of  the  symphony, 
he  had  felt  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  something  big, 
something  the  like  of  which  he  had  never  in  his  life  come 
across.  He  went  on  muttering  to  himself  with  heartfelt  en- 
thusiasm : 

"That's  fine!  That's  beautiful!  Beautiful!"  while  his 
sister  instinctively  pressed  close  to  him,  gratefully.  After  the 
symphony  he  applauded  loudly  by  way  of  protest  against  the 
ironic  indifference  of  the  rest  of  the  audience.  When  it  came 
to  the  great  fiasco,  he  was  beside  himself:  he  stood  up,  shouted 
that  Christophe  was  right,  abused  the  booers,  and  offered  to 
fight  them:  it  was  impossible  to  recognize  the  timid  Olivier. 
His  voice  was  drowned  in  the  uproar :  he  was  told  to  shut  up : 
he  was  called  a  "  snotty  little  kid,"  and  told  to  go  to  bed.  An- 


ANTOINETTE  289 

toinette  saw  the  futility  of  standing  up  to  them,  and  took  his 

arm  and  said: 

"  Stop !     Stop !     I  implore  you !     Stop !  " 
He  sat  down  in  despair,  and  went  on  muttering : 
"It's  shameful!     Shameful!     The  swine!   ..." 
She  said  nothing  and  bore  her  suffering  in  silence :  he  thought 

she  was  insensible  to  the  music,  and  said : 
"  Antoinette,  don't  you  think  it  beautiful  ?  " 
She  nodded.     She  was  frozen,  and  could  not  recover  herself. 

But  when  the  orchestra  began  another  piece,  she  suddenly  got 

up,  and  whispered  to  her  brother  in  a  tone  of  savage  hatred : 
"  Come,  come !  I  can't  bear  the  sight  of  these  people !  " 
They  hurried  out.  They  walked  along  arm-in-arm,  and 

Olivier  went  on  talking  excitedly.     Antoinette  said  nothing. 

All  that  day  and  the  days  following  she  sat  alone  in  her 
room,  and  a  feeling  crept  over  her  which  at  first  she  refused 
to  face :  but  then  it  went  on  and  took  possession  of  her  thoughts, 
like  the  furious  throbbing  of  the  blood  in  her  aching  temples. 

Some  time  afterwards  Olivier  brought  her  Christophe's  col- 
lection of  songs,  which  he  had  just  found  at  a  publisher's.  She 
opened  it  at  random.  On  the  first  page  on  which  her  eyes  fell 
she  read  in  front  of  a  song  this  dedication  in  German : 

"  To  my  poor  dear  little  victim,"  together  with  a  date. 

She  knew  the  date  well. — She  was  so  upset  that  she  could 
read  no  farther.  She  put  the  book  down  and  asked  her  brother 
to  play,  and  went  and  shut  herself  up  in  her  room.  Olivier, 
full  of  his  delight  in  the  new  music,  began  to  play  without  re- 
marking his  sister's  emotion.  Antoinette  sat  in  the  adjoining 
room,  striving  to  repress  the  beating  of  her  heart.  Suddenly 
she  got  up  and  looked  through  a  cupboard  for  a  little  account- 
book  in  which  was  written  the  date  of  her  departure  from  Ger- 
many, and  the  mysterious  date.  She  knew  it  already:  yes,  it 
was  the  evening  of  the  performance  at  the  theater  to  which  she 
had  been  with  Christophe.  She  lay  down  on  her  bed  and  closed 
her  eyes,  blushing,  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  breast,  while 


290  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

she  listened  to  the  dear  music.  Her  heart  was  overflowing 
with  gratitude.  ...  Ah!  Why  did  her  head  hurt  her  so? 

When  Olivier  saw  that  his  sister  had  not  come  back,  he 
went  into  her  room  after  he  had  done  playing,  and  found  her 
lying  there.  He  asked  her  if  she  were  ill.  She  said  she  was 
rather  tired,  and  got  up  to  keep  him  company.  They  talked: 
but  she  did  not  answer  his  questions  at  once:  her  thoughts 
seemed  to  be  far  away:  she  smiled,  and  blushed,  and  said, 
by  way  of  excuse,  that  her  headache  was  making  her  stupid. 
At  last  Olivier  went  away.  She  had  asked  him  to  leave  the 
book  of  songs.  She  sat  up  late  reading  them  at  the  piano,  with- 
out playing,  just  lightly  touching  a  note  here  and  there,  for 
fear  of  annoying  her  neighbors.  But  for  the  most  part  she 
did  not  even  read:  she  sat  dreaming:  she  was  carried  away  by 
a  feeling  of  tenderness  and  gratitude  towards  the  man  who  had 
pitied  her,  and  had  read  her  mind  and  soul  with  the  mysterious 
intuition  of  true  kindness.  She  could  not  fix  her  thoughts. 
She  was  happy  and  sad — sad!  .  .  .  Ah!  How  her  head 
ached ! 

She  spent  the  night  in  sweet  and  painful  dreams,  a  crush- 
ing melancholy.  During  the  day  she  tried  to  go  out  for  a 
little  to  shake  off  her  drowsiness.  Although  her  head  was  still 
aching,  to  give  herself  something  to  do,  she  went  and  made  a 
few  purchases  at  a  great  shop.  She  hardly  gave  a  thought  to 
what  she  was  doing.  Her  thoughts  were  always  with  Chris- 
tophe,  though  she  did  not  admit  it  to  herself.  As  she  came  out, 
worried  and  mortally  sad,  through  the  crowd  of  people  she  saw 
Christophe  go  by  on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  He  saw  her, 
too,  at  the  same  moment.  At  once, — (suddenly  and  without 
thinking),  she  held  out  her  hands  towards  him.  Christophe 
stopped:  this  time  he  recognized  her.  He  sprang  forward  to 
cross  the  road  to  Antoinette:  and  Antoinette  tried  to  go  to 
meet  him.  But  the  insensate  current  of  the  passing  throng 
carried  her  along  like  a  windlestraw,  while  the  horse  of  an  omni- 
bus, falling  on  the  slippery  asphalt,  made  a  sort  of  dyke  in  front 
of  Christophe,  by  which  the  opposing  streams  of  carriages  were 


ANTOINETTE  291 

dammed,  so  that  for  a  few  moments  there  was  an  impassable 
barrier.  Christophe  tried  to  force  his  way  through  in  spite  of 
everything:  but  he  was  trapped  in  the  middle  of  the  traffic,  and 
could  not  move  either  way.  When  at  last  he  did  extricate  him- 
self and  managed  to  reach  the  place  where  he  had  seen  An- 
toinette, she  was  gone:  she  had  struggled  vainly  against  the 
human  torrent  that  carried  her  along:  then  she  yielded  to  it — 
gave  up  the  struggle.  She  felt  that  she  was  dogged  by  some 
fatality  which  forbade  the  possibility  of  her  ever  meeting  Chris- 
tophe: against  Fate  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  And  when 
she  did  succeed  in  escaping  from  the  crowd,  she  made  no  at- 
tempt to  go  back:  she  was  suddenly  ashamed:  what  could  she 
dare  to  say  to  him  ?  What  had  she  done  ?  What  must  he  have 
thought  of  her  ?  She  fled  away  home. 

She  did  not  regain  assurance  until  she  reached  her  room. 
Then  she  sat  by  the  table  in  the  dark,  and  had  not  even  the 
strength  to  take  off  her  hat  or  her  gloves.  She  was  miserable 
at  having  been  unable  to  speak  to  him:  and  at  the  same  time 
there  glowed  a  new  light  in  her  heart:  she  was  unconscious  of 
the  darkness,  and  unconscious  of  the  illness  that  was  upon  her. 
She  went  on  and  on  turning  over  and  over  every  detail  of  the 
scene  in  the  street:  and  she  changed  it  about  and  imagined 
what  would  have  happened  if  certain  things  had  turned  out  dif- 
ferently. She  saw  herself  holding  out  her  arms  to  Christophe, 
and  Christophe's  expression  of  joy  as  he  recognized  her,  and  she 
laughed  and  blushed.  She  blushed:  and  then  in  the  darkness 
of  her  room,  where  there  was  no  one  to  see  her,  and  she  could 
hardly  see  herself,  once  more  she  held  out  her  arms  to  him. 
Her  need  was  too  strong  for  her:  she  felt  that  she  was  losing 
ground,  and  instinctively  she  sought  to  clutch  at  the  strong 
vivid  life  that  passed  so  near  her,  and  gazed  so  kindly  at  her. 
Her  heart  was  full  of  tenderness  and  anguish,  and  through  the 
night  she  cried: 

"Help  me!     Save  me!" 

All  in  a  fever  she  got  up  and  lit  the  lamp,  and  took  pen 
and  paper.  She  wrote  to  Christophe.  Her  illness  was  full 


292  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

upon  her,  or  she  would  never  even  have  thought  of  writing 
to  him,  so  proud  she  was  and  timid.  She  did  not  know  what 
she  wrote.  She  was  no  longer  mistress  of  herself.  She  called 
to  him,  and  told  him  that  she  loved  him.  ...  In  the  middle 
of  her  letter  she  stopped,  appalled.  She  tried  to  write  it  all 
over  again:  but  her  impulse  was  gone:  her  mind  was  a  blank, 
and  her  head  was  aching :  she  had  a  horrible  difficulty  in  finding 
words:  she  was  utterly  worn  out.  She  was  ashamed.  .  .  . 
What  was  the  good  of  it  all?  She  knew  perfectly  well  that 
she  was  trying  to  trick  herself,  and  that  she  would  never 
send  the  letter.  .  .  .  Even  if  she  had  wished  to  do  so,  how 
could  she?  She  did  not  know  Christophe's  address.  .  .  . 
Poor  Christophe !  And  what  could  he  do  for  her  ?  Even  if  he 
knew  all  and  were  kind  to  her,  what  could  he  do?  ...  It 
was  too  late !  No,  no :  it  was  all  in  vain,  the  last  dying  struggle 
of  a  bird,  blindly,  desperately  beating  its  wings.  She  must  be 
resigned  to  it.  ... 

So  for  a  long  time  she  sat  there  by  the  table,  lost  in  thought, 
unable  to  move  hand  or  foot.  It  was  past  midnight  when  she 
struggled  to  her  feet — bravely.  Mechanically  she  placed  the 
loose  sheets  of  her  letter  in  one  of  her  few  books,  for  she  had 
the  strength  neither  to  put  them  in  order  nor  to  tear  them  up. 
Then  she  went  to  bed,  shivering  and  shaking  with  fever.  The 
key  to  the  riddle  lay  near  at  hand:  she  felt  that  the  will  of 
God  was  to  be  fulfilled. — And  a  great  peace  came  upon 
her. 

On  Sunday  morning  when  Olivier  came  he  found  Antoinette 
in  bed,  delirious.  A  doctor  was  called  in.  He  said  it  was 
acute  consumption. 

Antoinette  had  known  how  serious  her  condition  was:  she 
had  discovered  the  cause  of  the  moral  turmoil  in  herself 
which  had  so  alarmed  her.  She  had  been  dreadfully  ashamed, 
and  it  was  some  consolation  to  her  to  think  that  not  she  herself 
but  her  illness  was  the  cause  of  it.  She  had  managed  to  take 
a  few  precautions  and  to  burn  her  papers  and  to  write  a  letter 
to  Madame  Nathan:  she  appealed  to  her  kindness  to  look  after 


ANTOINETTE  293 

her  brother  during  the  first  few  weeks  after  her  "death" — 
(she  dared  not  write  the  word).  .  .  . 

The  doctor  could  do  nothing:  the  disease  was  too  far  gone, 
and  Antoinette's  constitution  had  been  wrecked  by  the  years  of 
hardship  and  unceasing  toil. 

Antoinette  was  quite  calm.  Since  she  had  known  that  there 
was  no  hope  her  agony  and  torment  had  left  her.  She  lay 
turning  over  in  her  mind  all  the  trials  and  tribulations  through 
which  she  had  passed :  she  saw  that  her  work  was  done  and  her 
dear  Olivier  saved:  and  she  was  filled  with  unutterable  joy. 
She  said  to  herself : 

"I  have  achieved  that." 

And  then  she  turned  in  shame  from  her  pride  and  said: 

"I  could  have  done  nothing  alone.  God  has  given  me  His 
aid." 

And  she  thanked  God  that  He  had  granted  her  life  until  she 
had  accomplished  her  task.  There  was  a  catch  at  her  heart  as 
she  thought  that  now  she  had  to  lay  down  her  life:  but  she 
dared  not  complain:  that  would  have  been  to  feel  ingratitude 
towards  God,  who  might  have  called  her  away  sooner.  And 
what  would  have  happened  if  she  had  passed  away  a  year 
sooner? — She  sighed,  and  humbled  herself  in  gratitude. 

In  spite  of  her  weakness  and  oppression  she  did  not  com- 
plain,— except  when  she  was  sleeping  heavily,  when  every  now 
and  then  she  moaned  like  a  little  child.  She  watched  things  and 
people  with  a  calm  smile  of  resignation.  It  was  always  a  joy 
to  her  to  see  Olivier.  She  would  move  her  lips  to  call  him, 
though  she  made  no  sound :  she  would  want  to  hold  his  hand  in 
hers:  she  would  bid  him  lay  his  head  on  the  pillow  near  hers, 
and  then,  gazing  into  his  eyes,  she  would  go  on  looking  at  him 
in  silence.  At  last  she  would  raise  herself  up  and  hold  his  face 
in  her  hands  and  say: 

"Ah!   Olivier!   .    .    .   Olivier!   ..." 

She  took  the  medal  that  she  wore  round  her  neck,  and  hung 
it  on  her  brother's.  She  commended  her  beloved  Olivier  to 
the  care  of  her  confessor,  her  doctor,  everybody.  It  seemed  as 


294  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

though  she  was  to  live  henceforth  in  him,  that,  on  the  point  of 
death,  she  was  taking  refuge  in  his  life,  as  upon  some  island 
in  uncharted  seas.  Sometimes  she  seemed  to  be  uplifted  by 
a  mystic  exaltation  of  tenderness  and  faith,  and  she  forgot  her 
illness,  and  sadness  changed  to  joy  in  her, — a  joy  divine  indeed 
that  shone  upon  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes.  Over  and  over  again 
she  said : 

"I  am  happy.   ..." 

Her  senses  grew  dim.  In  her  last  moments  of  consciousness 
her  lips  moved  and  it  seemed  that  she  was  repeating  some- 
thing to  herself.  Olivier  went  to  her  bedside  and  bent  down 
over  her.  She  recognized  him  once  more  and  smiled  feebly  up 
at  him:  her  lips  went  on  moving  and  her  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears.  They  could  not  make  out  what  she  was  trying  to  say. 
.  .  .  But  faintly  Olivier  heard  her  breathe  the  words  of  the 
dear  old  song  they  used  to  love  so  much,  the  song  she  was  al- 
ways singing : 

"/  will  come  again,  my  sweet  and  bonny,  I  will  come  again." 

Then  she  relapsed  into  unconsciousness.     So  she  passed  away. 

Unconsciously  she  had  aroused  a  profound  sympathy  in 
many  people  whom  she  did  not  even  know :  in  the  house  in 
which  she  lived  she  did  not  even  know  the  names  of  the  other 
tenants.  Olivier  received  expressions  of  sympathy  from  people 
who  were  strangers  to  him.  Antoinette  was  not  taken  to  her 
grave  unattended  as  her  mother  had  been.  Her  body  was  fol- 
lowed to  the  cemetery  by  friends  and  schoolfellows  of  her 
brother,  and  members  of  the  families  whose  children  she  had 
taught,  and  people  whom  she  had  met  without  saying  a  word 
of  her  own  life  or  hearing  a  word  from  them,  though  they  ad- 
mired her  secretly,  knowing  her  devotion,  and  many  of  the 
poor,  and  the  housekeeper  who  had  helped  her,  and  even  many 
of  the  small  tradesmen  of  the  neighborhood.  Madame  Nathan 
had  taken  Olivier  under  her  wing  on  the  day  of  his  sister's 
death,  and  she  had  carried  him  off  in  spite  of  himself,  and  done 
her  best  to  turn  his  thoughts  away  from  his  grief. 


ANTOINETTE  295 

If  it  had  come  later  in  his  life  he  could  never  have  borne 
up  against  such  a  catastrophe, — but  now  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  succumb  absolutely  to  his  despair.  He  had  just  begun  a 
new  life;  he  was  living  in  a  community,  and  had  to  live  the 
common  life  whatever  he  might  be  feeling.  The  full  busy  life 
of  the  Ecole,  the  intellectual  pressure,  the  examinations,  the 
struggle  for  life,  all  kept  him  from  withdrawing  into  himself: 
he  could  not  be  alone.  He  suffered,  but  it  proved  his  salvation. 
A  year  earlier,  or  a  few  years  earlier,  he  must  have  succumbed. 

And  yet  he  did  as  far  as  possible  retire  into  isolation  in 
the  memory  of  his  sister.  It  was  a  great  sorrow  to  him  that  he 
could  not  keep  the  rooms  where  they  had  lived  together:  but 
he  had  no  money.  He  hoped  that  the  people  who  seemed  to 
be  interested  in  him  would  understand  his  distress  at  not  being 
able  to  keep  the  things  that  had  been  hers.  But  nobody  seemed 
to  understand.  He  borrowed  some  money  and  made  a  little 
more  by  private  tuition  and  took  an  attic  in  which  he  stored  all 
that  he  could  preserve  of  his  sister's  furniture:  her  bed,  her 
table,  and  her  armchair.  He  made  it  the  sanctuary  of  her 
memory.  He  took  refuge  there  whenever  he  was  depressed. 
His  friends  thought  he  was  carrying  on  an  intrigue.  He  would 
stay  there  for  hours  dreaming  of  her  with  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands :  unhappily  he  had  no  portrait  of  her  except  a  little  photo- 
graph, taken  when  she  was  a  child,  of  the  two  of  them  together. 
He  would  talk  to  her  and  weep.  .  .  .  Where  was  she?  Ah! 
if  she  had  been  at  the  other  end  of  the  world,  wherever  she 
might  be  and  however  inaccessible  the  spot, — with  what  great 
joy  and  invincible  ardor  he  would  have  rushed  forth  in  search 
of  her,  though  a  thousand  sufferings  lay  in  wait  for  him, 
though  he  had  to  go  barefoot,  though  he  had  to  wander  for 
hundreds  of  years,  if  only  it  might  be  that  every  step  would 
bring  him  nearer  to  her!  .  .  .  Yes,  even  though  there  were 
only  one  chance  in  a  thousand  of  his  ever  finding  her.  .  .  . 
But  there  was  nothing.  .  .  .  Nowhere  to  go.  .  .  .  No  way 
of  ever  finding  her  again.  .  .  .  How  utterly  lonely  he  was 
now!  Now  that  she  was  no  longer  there  to  love  and  counsel 


296  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

and  console  him,  inexperienced  and  childish  as  he  was,  he  was 
flung  into  the  waters  of  life,  to  sink  or  swim!  .  .  .  He  who 
has  once  had  the  happiness  of  perfect  intimacy  and  boundless 
friendship  with  another  human  being  has  known  the  divinest 
of  all  joys, — a  joy  that  will  make  him  miserable  for  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life.  .  .  . 

Nessun  maggior  dolore  che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice  nella 
miseria.  .  .  . 

For  a  weak  and  tender  soul  it  is  the  greatest  of  misfortunes 
ever  to  have  known  the  greatest  happiness. 

But  though  it  is  sad  indeed  to  lose  the  beloved  at  the  be- 
ginning of  life,  it  is  even  more  terrible  later  on  when  the  springs 
of  life  are  running  dry.  Olivier  was  young :  and,  in  spite  of  his 
inborn  pessimism,  in  spite  of  his  misfortune,  he  had  to  live  his 
life.  As  often  seems  to  happen  after  the  loss  of  those  dear  to 
us,  it  was  as  though  when  Antoinette  passed  away  she  had 
breathed  part  of  her  soul  into  her  brother's  life.  And  he  be- 
lieved it  was  so.  Though  he  had  not  such  faith  as  hers,  yet  he 
did  arrive  at  a  vague  •  conviction  that  his  sister  was  not  dead, 
but  lived  on  in  him,  as  she  had  promised.  There  is  a  Breton 
superstition  that  those  who  die  young  are  not  dead,  but  stay  and 
hover  over  the  places  where  they  lived  until  they  have  fulfilled 
the  normal  span  of  their  existence. — So  Antoinette  lived  out 
her  life  in  Olivier. 

He  read  through  the  papers  he  had  found  in  her  room.  Un- 
happily she  had  burned  most  of  them.  Besides,  she  was  not  the 
sort  of  woman  to  keep  notes  and  tallies  of  her  inner  life.  She 
was  too  modest  to  uncloak  her  inmost  thoughts  in  morbid 
babbling  indiscretion.  She  only  kept  a  little  notebook  which 
was  almost  unintelligible  to  anybody  else — a  bare  record  in 
which  she  had  written  down  without  remark  certain  dates,  and 
certain  small  events  in  her  daily  life,  which  had  given  her  joys 
and  emotions,  which  she  had  no  need  to  write  down  in  detail 
to  keep  alive.  Almost  all  these  dates  were  connected  with  some 
event  in  Olivier's  life.  She  had  kept  every  letter  he  had  ever 
written  to  her,  without  exception. — Alas !  He  had  not  been  so 


ANTOINETTE  297 

careful :  he  had  lost  almost  all  the  letters  she  had  written  to  him. 
What  need  had  he  of  letters?  He  thought  he  would  have  his 
sister  always  with  him :  that  dear  fount  of  tenderness  seemed 
inexhaustible :  he  thought  that  he  would  always  be  able  to  quench 
his  thirst  of  lips  and  heart  at  it :  he  had  most  prodigally  squan- 
dered the  love  he  had  received,  and  now  he  was  eager  to  gather 
up  the  smallest  drops.  .  .  .  What  was  his  emotion  when,  as 
he  skimmed  through  one  of  Antoinette's  books,  he  found  these 
words  written  in  pencil  on  a  scrap  of  paper : 

"  Olivier,  my  dear  Olivier !   .    .    . " 

He  almost  swooned.  He  sobbed  and  kissed  the  invisible 
lips  that  so  spoke  to  him  from  the  grave. — Thereafter  he  took 
down  all  her  books  and  hunted  through  them  page  by  page  to 
see  if  she  had  not  left  some  other  words  of  him.  He  found  the 
fragment  of  the  letter  to  Christophe,  and  discovered  the  un- 
spoken romance  which  had  sprung  to  life  in  her :  so  for  the  first 
time  he  happed  upon  her  emotional  life,  that  he  had  never 
known  in  her  and  never  tried  to  know:  he  lived  through  the 
last  passionate  days,  when,  deserted  by  himself,  she  had  held 
out  her  arms  to  the  unknown  friend.  She  had  never  told  him 
that  she  had  seen  Christophe  before.  Certain  words  in  her  let- 
ter revealed  the  fact  that  they  had  met  in  Germany.  He  un- 
derstood that  Christophe  had  been  kind  to  Antoinette,  in  cir- 
cumstances the  details  of  which  were  unknown  to  him,  and  that 
Antoinette's  feeling  for  the  musician  dated  from  that  day, 
though  she  had  kept  her  secret  to  the  end. 

Christophe,  whom  he  loved  already  for  the  beauty  of  his 
art,  now  became  unutterably  dear  to  him.  She  had  loved  him : 
it  seemed  to  Olivier  that  it  was  she  whom  he  loved  in  Chris- 
tophe. He  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  meet  him.  It  was  not 
an  easy  matter  to  trace  him.  After  his  rebuff  Christophe  had 
been  lost  in  the  wilderness  of  Paris :  he  had  shunned  all  society 
and  no  one  gave  a  thought  to  him. — After  many  months  it 
chanced  that  Olivier  met  Christophe  in  the  street :  he  was  pale 
and  sunken  from  the  illness  from  which  he  had  only  just  recov- 
ered. But  Olivier  had  not  the  courage  to  stop  him.  He  fol- 


298  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

lowed  him  home  at  a  distance.  He  wanted  to  write  to  him, 
but  could  not  screw  himself  up  to  it.  What  was  there  to  say? 
Olivier  was  not  alone:  Antoinette  was  with  him:  her  love,  her 
modesty  had  become  a  part  of  him :  the  thought  that  his  sister 
had  loved  Christophe  made  him  as  bashful  in  Christophe's  pres- 
ence as  though  he  had  been  Antoinette.  And  yet  how  he 
longed  to  talk  to  him  of  her! — But  he  could  not.  Her  secret 
was  a  seal  upon  his  lips. 

He  tried  to  meet  Christophe  again.  He  went  everywhere 
where  he  thought  Christophe  might  be.  He  was  longing  to 
shake  hands  with  him.  And  when  he  saw  him  he  tried  to  hide 
so  that  Christophe  should  not  see  him. 

At  last  Christophe  saw  him  at  the  house  of  some  mutual 
friends  where  they  both  happened  to  be  one  evening.  Olivier 
stood  far  away  from  him  and  said  nothing :  but  he  watched  him. 
And  no  doubt  the  spirit  of  Antoinette  was  hovering  near 
Olivier  that  night:  for  Christophe  saw  her  in  Olivier's  eyes: 
and  it  was  her  image,  so  suddenly  evoked,  that  made  him  cross 
the  room  and  go  towards  the  unknown  messenger,  who,  like  a 
young  Hermes,  brought  him  the  melancholy  greeting  of  the 
blessed  dead. 


THE   HOUSE 


I  HAVE  a  friend!  ...  Oh!  The  delight  of  having  found 
a  kindred  soul  to  which  to  cling  in  the  midst  of  torment, 
a  tender  and  sure  refuge  in  which  to  breathe  again  while 
the  fluttering  heart  beats  slower!  No  longer  to  be  alone, 
no  longer  never  to  unarm,  no  longer  to  stay  on  guard  with 
straining,  burning  eyes,  until  from  sheer  fatigue  he  should 
fall  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies!  To  have  a  dear  com- 
panion into  whose  hands  all  his  life  should  be  delivered — • 
the  friend  whose  life  was  delivered  into  his !  At  last  to 
taste  the  sweetness  of  repose,  to  sleep  while  the  friend  watches, 
watch  while  the  friend  sleeps.  To  know  the  joy  of  protecting 
a  beloved  creature  who  should  trust  in  him  like  a  little  child. 
To  know  the  greater  joy  of  absolute  surrender  to  that  friend, 
to  feel  that  he  is  in  possession  of  all  secrets,  and  has  power 
over  life  and  death.  Aging,  worn  out,  weary  of  the  burden 
of  life  through  so  many  years,  to  find  new  birth  and  fresh 
youth  in  the  body  of  the  friend,  through  his  eyes  to  see  the 
world  renewed,  through  his  senses  to  catch  the  fleeting  love- 
liness of  all  things  by  the  way,  through  his  heart  to  enjoy 
the  splendor  of  living.  .  .  .  Even  to  suffer  in  his  suffering. 
...  Ah!  Even  suffering  is  joy  if  it  be  shared! 

I  have  a  friend!  .  .  .  Away  from  me,  near  me,  in  me 
always.  I  have  my  friend,  and  I  am  his.  My  friend  loves 
me.  I  am  my  friend's,  the  friend  of  my  friend.  Of  our  two 
souls  love  has  fashioned  one. 

Christophe's  first  thought,  when  he  awoke  the  day  after 
the  Eoussins'  party,  was  for  Olivier  Jeannin.  At  once  he 
felt  an  irresistible  longing  to  see  him  again.  He  got  up  and 

801 


302  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

went  out.  It  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock.  It  was  a  heavy  and 
rather  oppressive  morning.  An  April  day  before  its  time: 
stormy  clouds  were  hovering  over  Paris. 

Olivier  lived  below  the  hill  of  Sainte-Genevieve,  in  a  little 
street  near  the  Jardin  des  Plantes.  The  house  stood  in  the 
narrowest  part  of  the  street.  The  staircase  led  out  of  a  dark 
yard,  and  was  full  of  divers  unpleasant  smells.  The  stairs 
wound  steeply  up  and  sloped  down  towards  ,the  wall,  which  was 
disfigured  with  scribblings  in  pencil.  On  the  third  floor  a 
woman,  with  gray  hair  hanging  down,  and  in  petticoat-bodice, 
gaping  at  the  neck,  opened  the  door  when  she  heard  footsteps 
on  the  stairs,  and  slammed  it  to  when  she  saw  Christophe. 
There  were  several  flats  on  each  landing,  and  through  the 
ill-fitting  doors  Christophe  could  hear  children  romping  and 
squalling.  The  place  was  a  swarming  heap  of  dull  base 
creatures,  living  as  it  were  on  shelves,  one  above  the  other, 
in  that  low-storied  house,  built  round  a  narrow,  evil-smelling 
yard.  Christophe  was  disgusted,  and  wondered  what  lusts  and 
covetous  desires  could  have  drawn  so  many  creatures  to  this 
place,  far  from  the  fields,  where  at  least  there  is  air  enough 
for  all,  and  what  it  could  profit  them  in  the  end  to  be  in  the 
city  of  Paris,  where  all  their  lives  they  were  condemned  to  live  in 
such  a  sepulcher. 

He  reached  Olivier's  landing.  A  knotted  piece  of  string  was 
his  bell-pull.  Christophe  tugged  at  it  so  mightily  that  at 
the  noise  several  doors  on  the  staircase  were  half  opened. 
Olivier  came  to  the  door.  Christophe  was  struck  by  the  care- 
ful simplicity  of  his  dress:  and  the  neatness  of  it,  which  at 
any  other  time  would  have  been  little  to  his  liking,  was  in  that 
place  an  agreeable  surprise:  in  such  an  atmosphere  of  foul- 
ness there  was  something  charming  and  healthy  about  it. 
And  at  once  he  felt  just  as  he  had  done  the  night  before 
when  he  gazed  into  Olivier's  clear,  honest  eyes.  He  held  out 
his  hand:  but  Olivier  was  overcome  with  shyness,  and  mur- 
mured : 

"You.  You  here!" 


THE  HOTJSE  303 

Christophe  was  engrossed  in  catching  at  the  lovable  quality 
of  the  man  as  it  was  revealed  to  him  in  that  fleeting  moment 
of  embarrassment,  and  he  only  smiled  in  answer.  He  moved 
forward  and  forced  Olivier  backward,  and  entered  the  one 
room  in  which  he  both  slept  and  worked.  An  iron  bedstead 
stood  against  the  wall  near  the  window;  Christophe  noticed 
the  pillows  heaped  up  on  the  bolster.  There  were  three  chairs, 
a  black-painted  table,  a  small  piano,  bookshelves  and  books,  and 
that  was  all.  The  room  was  cramped,  low,  til-lighted:  and 
yet  there  was  in  it  a  ray  of  the  pure  light  that  shone  in  the 
eyes  of  its  owner.  Everything  was  clean  and  tidy,  as  though 
a  woman's  hands  had  dealt  with  it:  and  a  few  roses  in  a  vase 
brought  spring-time  into  the  room,  the  walls  of  which  were 
decorated  with  photographs  of  old  Florentine  pictures. 

"  So.  ...  You.  .  .  .  You  have  come  to  see  me  ?  "  said 
Olivier  warmly. 

"  Good  Lord,  I  had  to ! "  said  Christophe.  "  You  would 
never  have  come  to  me  ?  " 

"You  think  not?"  replied  Olivier. 

Then,  quickly: 

"  Yes,  you  are  right.  But  it  would  not  be  for  want  of  thinking 
of  it." 

"  What  would  have  stopped  you  ?  " 

"  Wanting  to  too  much." 

"  That's  a  fine  reason !  " 

"Yes.  Don't  laugh.  I  was  afraid  you  would  not  want  it 
as  much  as  I." 

"A  lot  that's  worried  me!  I  wanted  to  see  you,  and  here 
I  am.  If  it  bores  you,  I  shall  know  at  once." 

"  You  will  have  to  have  good  eyes." 

They  smiled  at  each  other. 

Olivier  went  on: 

"  I  was  an  ass  last  night.  I  was  afraid  I  might  have  of- 
fended you.  My  shyness  is  absolutely  a  disease:  I  can't  get  a 
word  out." 

"  I  shouldn't  worry  about  that.     There  are  plenty  of  talkers 


304  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

in  your  country:  one  is  only  too  glad  to  meet  a  man  who  is 
silent  occasionally,  even  though  it  be  only  from  shyness  and  in 
spite  of  himself." 

Christophe  laughed  and  chuckled  over  his  own  gibe. 

"Then  you  have  come  to  see  me  because  I  can  be 
silent?" 

"Yes.  For  your  silence,  the  sort  of  silence  that  is  yours. 
There  are  all  sorts:  and  I  like  yours,  and  that's  all  there  is 
to  say." 

"But  how  could  you  sympathize  with  me?  You  hardly 
saw  me." 

"  That's  my  affair.  It  doesn't  take  me  long  to  make  up  my 
mind.  When  I  see  a  face  that  I  like  in  the  crowd,  I  know 
what  to  do:  I  go  after  it:  I  simply  have  to  know  the  owner 
of  it." 

"And  don't  you  ever  make  mistakes  when  you  go  after 
them?" 

"  Often." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  made  a  mistake  this  time." 

"We  shall  see." 

"Ah!  In  that  case  I'm  done!  You  terrify  me.  If  I 
think  you  are  watching  me,  I  shall  lose  what  little  wits  I 
have." 

With  fond  and  eager  curiosity  Christophe  watched  the  sensi- 
tive, mobile  face,  which  blushed  and  went  pale  by  turns.  Emo- 
tion showed  fleeting  across  it  like  the  shadows  of  clouds  on  a 
lake. 

"  What  a  nervous  youngster  it  is ! "  he  thought.  "  He  is 
like  a  woman." 

He  touched  his  knee. 

"  Come,  come ! "  he  said.  "  Do  you  think  I  should  come 
to  you  with  weapons  concealed  about  me?  I  have  a  horror 
of  people  who  practise  their  psychology  on  their  friends.  I 
only  ask  that  we  should  both  be  open  and  sincere,  and  frankly 
and  without  shame,  and  without  being  afraid  of  committing 
ourselves  finally  to  anything  or  of  any  sort  of  contradiction,  be 


THE  HOUSE  305 

true  to  what  we  feel.  I  ask  only  the  right  to  love  now,  and 
next  minute,  if  needs  must,  to  be  out  of  love.  There's  loyalty 
and  manliness  in  that,  isn't  there  ?  " 

Olivier  gazed  at  him  with  serious  eyes,  and  replied: 

"  No  doubt.  It  is  the  more  manly  part,  and  you  are  strong 
enough.  But  I  don't  think  I  am." 

"I'm  sure  you  are,"  said  Christophe;  "but  in  a  different 
way.  And  then,  I've  come  just  to  help  you  to  be  strong,  if 
you  want  to  be  so.  For  what  I  have  just  said  gives  me  leave 
to  go  on  and  say,  with  more  frankness  than  I  should  other- 
wise have  had,  that — without  prejudice  for  to-morrow — I  love 
you." 

Olivier  blushed  hotly.  He  was  struck  dumb  with  embar- 
rassment, and  could  not  speak. 

Christophe  glanced  round  the  room. 

"It's  a  poor  place  you  live  in.     Haven't  you  another  room?" 

"  Only  a  lumber-room." 

"Ugh!  I  can't  breathe.  How  do  you  manage  to  live 
here?" 

"  One  does  it  somehow." 

"I  couldn't — never." 

Christophe  unbuttoned  his  waistcoat  and  took  a  long  breath. 

Olivier  went  and  opened  the  window  wide. 

"You  must  be  very  unhappy  in  a  town,  M.  Krafft.  But 
there's  no  danger  of  my  suffering  from  too  much  vitality.  I 
breathe  so  little  that  I  can  live  anywhere.  And  yet  there  are 
nights  in  summer  when  even  I  am  hard  put  to  it  to  get  through. 
I'm  terrified  when  I  see  them  coming.  Then  I  stay  sitting 
up  in  bed,  and  I'm  almost  stifled." 

Christophe  looked  at  the  heap  of  pillows  on  the  bed,  and 
from  them  to  Olivier's  worn  face:  and  he  could  see  him 
struggling  there  in  the  darkness. 

"  Leave  it,"  he  said.     "  Why  do  you  stay  ?  " 

Olivier  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  replied  carelessly: 

"  It  doesn't  matter  where  I  live." 

Heavy  footsteps  padded  across  the  floor  above  them.     In  the 


306  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

room  below  a  shrill  argument  was  toward.  And  always,  with- 
out ceasing,  the  walls  were  shaken  by  the  rumbling  of  the 
buses  in  the  street. 

"  And  the  house !  "  Christophe  went  on.  "  The  house  reek- 
ing of  filth,  the  hot  dirtiness  of  it  all,  the  shameful  poverty — 
how  can  you  bring  yourself  to  come  back  to  it  night  after 
night?  Don't  you  lose  heart  with  it  all?  I  couldn't  live  in 
it  for  a  moment.  I'd  rather  sleep  under  an  arch." 

"Yes.  I  felt  all  that  at  first,  and  suffered.  I  was  just 
as  disgusted  as  you  are.  When  I  went  for  walks  as  a  boy, 
the  mere  sight  of  some  of  the  crowded  dirty  streets  made  me 
ill.  They  gave  me  all  sorts  of  fantastic  horrors,  which  I 
dared  not  speak  of.  I  used  to  think :  '  If  there  were  an  earth- 
quake now,  I  should  be  dead,  and  stay  here  for  ever  and  ever ' ; 
and  that  seemed  to  me  the  most  appalling  thing  that  could 
happen.  I  never  thought  that  one  day  I  should  live  in  one  of 
them  of  my  own  free-will,  and  that  in  all  probability  I  shall  die 
there.  And  then  it  became  easier  to  put  up  with:  it  had  to. 
It  still  revolts  me:  but  I  try  not  to  think  of  it.  When  I 
climb  the  stairs  I  close  my  eyes,  and  stop  my  ears,  and  hold  my 
nose,  and  shut  off  all  my  senses  and  withdraw  utterly  into  my- 
self. And  then,  over  the  roof  there,  I  can  see  the  tops  of 
the  branches  of  an  acacia.  I  sit  here  in  this  corner  so  that  I 
don't  see  anything  else:  and  in  the  evening  when  the  wind 
rustles  through  them  I  fancy  that  I  am  far  away  from  Paris: 
and  the  mighty  roar  of  a  forest  has  never  seemed  so  sweet  to  me 
as  the  gentle  murmuring  of  those  few  frail  leaves  at  certain 
moments." 

"  Yes,"  said  Christophe.  "  I've  no  doubt  that  you  are  always 
dreaming;  but  it's  all  wrong  to  waste  your  fancy  in  such  a 
struggle  against  the  sordid  things  of  life,  when  you  might 
be  using  it  in  the  creation  of  other  lives." 

"  Isn't  it  the  common  lot  ?  Don't  you  yourself  waste  energy 
in  anger  and  bitter  struggles  ?  " 

"That's  not  the  same  thing.  It's  natural  to  me:  what  I 
was  born  for.  Look  at  my  arms  and  hands!  Fighting  is  the 


THE  HOUSE  307 

breath  of  life  to  me.  But  you  haven't  any  too  much  strength : 
that's  obvious." 

Olivier  looked  sadly  down  at  his  thin  wrists,  and  said: 

"  Yes.  I  am  weak :  I  always  have  been.  But  what  can  I  do  ? 
One  must  live  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  make  your  living  ?  " 

"  I  teach." 

"Teach  what?" 

"Everything — Latin,  Greek,  history.  I  coach  for  degrees. 
And  I  lecture  on  Moral  Philosophy  at  the  Municipal  School." 

"Lecture  on  what?" 

"  Moral  Philosophy." 

"  What  in  thunder  is  that  ?  Do  they  teach  morality  in 
French  schools?" 

Olivier  smiled: 

"  Of  course." 

"  Is  there  enough  in  it  to  keep  you  talking  for  ten 
minutes  ?  " 

"  I  have  to  lecture  for  twelve  hours  a  week." 

"  Do  you  teach  them  to  do  evil,  then  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  There's  no  need  for  so  much  talk  to  find  out  what  good 
is." 

"  Or  to  leave  it  undiscovered  either." 

"  Good  gracious,  yes !  Leave  it  undiscovered.  There  are 
worse  ways  of  doing  good  than  knowing  nothing  about  it.  Good 
isn't  a  matter  of  knowledge:  it's  a  matter  of  action.  It's  only 
your  neurasthenics  who  go  haggling  about  morality:  and  the 
first  of  all  moral  laws  is  not  to  be  neurasthenic.  Rotten  pedants ! 
They  are  like  cripples  teaching  people  how  to  walk." 

"  But  they  don't  do  their  talking  for  such  as  you.  You 
know :  but  there  are  so  many  who  do  not  know ! " 

"  Well,  let  them  crawl  like  children  until  they  learn  how 
to  walk  by  themselves.  But  whether  they  go  on  two  legs  or 
on  all  fours,  the  first  thing,  the  only  thing  you  can  ask  is  that 
they  should  walk  somehow," 


308  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

He  was  prowling  round  and  round  and  up  and  down  the 
room,  though  less  than  four  strides  took  him  across  it.  He 
stopped  in  front  of  the  piano,  opened  it,  turned  over  the  pages 
of  some  music,  touched  the  keys,  and  said : 

"  Play  me  something." 

Olivier  started. 

"I!"  he  said.     "What  an  idea!" 

"  Madame  Roussin  told  me  you  were  a  good  musician.  Come : 
play  me  something." 

"  With  you  listening?     Oh !  "  he  said,  "  I  should  die." 

The  sincerity  and  simplicity  with  which  he  spoke  made  Chris- 
tophe  laugh:  Olivier,  too,  though  rather  bashfully. 

"Well,"  said  Christophe,  "is  that  a  reason  for  a  Frencch- 
man?" 

Olivier  still  drew  back. 

"  But  why  ?     Why  do  you  want  me  to  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  presently.     Play ! " 

"What?" 

"Anything  you  like." 

Olivier  sat  down  at  the  piano  with  a  sigh,  and,  obedient  to 
the  imperious  will  of  the  friend  who  had  sought  him  out,  he 
began  to  play  the  beautiful  Adagio  in  B  Minor  of  Mozart.  At 
first  his  fingers  trembled  so  that  he  could  hardly  make  them 
press  down  the  keys:  but  he  regained  courage  little  by  little: 
and,  while  he  thought  he  was  but  repeating  Mozart's  utter- 
ance, he  unwittingly  revealed  his  inmost  heart.  Music  is  an 
indiscreet  confidant:  it  betrays  the  most  secret  thoughts  of  its 
lovers  to  those  who  love  it.  Through  the  godlike  scheme  of  the 
Adagio  of  Mozart  Christophe  could  perceive  the  invisible  lines 
of  the  character,  not  of  Mozart,  but  of  his  new  friend  sitting 
there  by  the  piano :  the  serene  melancholy,  the  timid,  tender 
smile  of  the  boy,  so  nervous,  so  pure,  so  full  of  love,  so  ready 
to  blush.  But  he  had  hardly  reached  the  end  of  the  air,  the 
topmost  point  where  the  melody  of  sorrowful  love  ascends  and 
snaps,  when  a  sudden  irrepressible  feeling  of  shame  and  modesty 
overcame  Olivier,  so  that  he  could  not  go  on :  his  fingers  would 


THE  HOUSE  309 

not  move,  and  his  voice  failed  him.  His  hands  fell  by  his  side, 
and  he  said: 

"I  can't  play  any  more.   .    .    ." 

Christophe  was  standing  behind  him,  and  he  stooped  and 
reached  over  him  and  finished  the  broken  melody:  then  he 
said: 

"  Now  I  know  the  music  of  your  soul." 

He  held  his  hands,  and  stayed  for  a  long  time  gazing  into 
his  face.  At  last  he  said: 

"  How  queer  it  is !  ...  I  have  seen  you  before.  ...  I 
know  you  so  well,  and  I  have  known  you  so  long !  .  .  . " 

Olivier's  lips  trembled :  he  was  on  the  point  of  speaking.  But 
he  said  nothing. 

Christophe  went  on  gazing  at  him  for  a  moment  or  two 
longer.  Then  he  smiled  and  said  no  more,  and  went  away. 

He  went  down  the  stairs  with  his  heart  filled  with  joy.  He 
passed  two  ugly  children  going  up,  one  with  bread,  the  other 
with  a  bottle  of  oil.  He  pinched  their  cheeks  jovially.  He 
smiled  at  the  scowling  porter.  When  he  reached  the  street  he 
walked  along  humming  to  himself  until  he  came  to  the  Luxem- 
bourg. He  lay  down  on  a  seat  in  the  shade,  and  closed  his  eyes. 
The  air  was  still  and  heavy:  there  were  only  a  few  passers-by. 
Very  faintly  he  could  hear  the  irregular  trickling  of  the  foun- 
tain, and  every  now  and  then  the  scrunching  of  the  gravel  as 
footsteps  passed  him  by.  Christophe  was  overcome  with  drowsi- 
ness, and  he  lay  basking  like  a  lizard  in  the  sun:  his  face  had 
been  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  trees  for  some  time :  but  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  stir.  His  thoughts  wound  about  and  about : 
he  made  no  attempt  to  hold  and  fix  them :  they  were  all  steeped 
in  the  light  of  happiness.  The  Luxembourg  clock  struck:  he 
did  not  listen  to  it:  but,  a  moment  later,  he  thought  it  must 
have  been  striking  twelve.  He  jumped  up  to  realize  that  he  had 
been  lounging  for  a  couple  of  hours,  had  missed  an  appoint- 
ment with  Hecht,  and  wasted  the  whole  morning.  He  laughed, 
and  went  home  whistling.  He  composed  a  Rondo  in  canon  on 


310  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

the  cry  of  a  peddler.  Even  sad  melodies  now  took  on  the 
charm  of  the  gladness  that  was  in  him.  As  he  passed  the  laun- 
dry in  his  street,  as  usual,  he  glanced  into  the  shop,  and  saw 
the  little  red-haired  girl,  with  her  dull  complexion  flushed  with 
the  heat,  and  she  was  ironing  with  her  thin  arms  bare  to  the 
shoulder  and  her  bodice  open  at  the  neck:  and,  as  usual,  she 
ogled  him  brazenly:  for  the  first  time  he  was  not  irritated  by 
her  eyes  meeting  his.  He  laughed  once  more.  When  he  reached 
his  room  he  was  free  of  all  the  obsessions  from  which  he  had 
suffered.  He  flung  his  hat,  coat,  and  vest  in  different  direc- 
tions, and  sat  down  to  work  with  an  all-conquering  zest.  He 
gathered  together  all  his  scattered  scraps  of  music,  which  were 
lying  all  over  the  room,  but  his  mind  was  not  in  his^workVhe 
only  read  the  script  with  his  eyes:  and  a  few  minutes  later 
he  fell  back  into  the  happy  somnolence  that  had  been  upon 
him  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens;  his  head  buzzed,  and  he 
could  not  think.  Twice  or  thrice  he  became  aware  of  his 
condition,  and  tried  to  shake  it  off:  but  in  vain.  He  swore 
light-heartedly,  got  up,  and  dipped  his  head  in  a  basin  of  cold 
water.  That  sobered  him  a  little.  He  sat  down  at  the  table 
again,  sat  in  silence,  and  smiled  dreamily.  He  was  wondering: 

"  What  is  the  difference  between  that  and  love  ?  " 

Instinctively  he  had  begun  to  think  in  whispers,  as  though 
he  were  ashamed.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There  are  not  two  ways  of  loving.  .  .  .  Or,  rather,  yes, 
there  are  two  ways:  there  is  the  way  of  those  who  love  with 
every  fiber  of  their  being,  and  the  way  of  those  who  only  give 
to  love  a  part  of  their  superfluous  energy.  God  keep  me  from 
such  cowardice  of  heart !  " 

He  stopped  in  his  thought,  from  a  sort  of  shame  and  dread 
of  following  it  any  farther.  He  sat  for  a  long  time  smil- 
ing at  his  inward  dreams.  His  heart  sang  through  the 
silence : 

Du  list  mein,  und  nun  ist  das  Meine  Meiner  als  jemals  .    .    . 

("  Thou  art  mine,  and  now  I  am  mine,  more  mine  than  I 
have  ever  been.  .  .  .") 


THE  HOUSE  311 

He  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  with  tranquil  ease  wrote  down 
the  song  that  was  in  his  heart. 

They  decided  to  take  rooms  together.  Christophe  wanted 
to  take  possession  at  once  without  worrying  about  the  waste  of 
half  a  quarter.  Olivier  was  more  prudent,  though  not  less 
ardent  in  their  friendship,  and  thought  it  better  to  wait  until 
their  respective  tenancies  had  expired.  Christophe  could  not 
understand  such  parsimony.  Like  many  people  who  have  no 
money,  he  never  worried  about  losing  it.  He  imagined  that 
Olivier  was  even  worse  off  than  himself.  One  day  when  his 
friend's  poverty  had  been  brought  home  to  him  he  left  him 
suddenly  and  returned  a  few  hours  later  in  triumph  with  a  few 
francs  which  he  had  squeezed  in  advance  out  of  Hecht.  Olivier 
blushed  and  refused.  Christophe  was  put  out  and  made  to 
throw  tliem  to  an  Italian  who  was  playing  in  the  yard.  Olivier 
withheld  him.  Christophe  went  away,  apparently  offended,  but 
really  furious  with  his  own  clumsiness  to  which  he  attributed 
Olivier's  refusal.  A  letter  from  his  friend  brought  balm  to  his 
wounds.  Olivier  could  write  what  he  could  not  express  by  word 
of  mouth:  he  could  tell  of  his  happiness  in  knowing  him  and 
how  touched  he  was  by  Christophe's  offer  of  assistance.  Chris- 
tophe replied  with  a  crazy,  wild  letter,  rather  like  those  which 
he  wrote  when  he  was  fifteen  to  his  friend  Otto :  it  was  full  of 
Gemiith  and  blundering  jokes:  he  made  puns  in  French  and 
German,  and  even  translated  them  into  music. 

At  last  they  went  into  their  rooms.  In  the  Montparnasse 
quarter,  near  the  Place  Denfert,  on  the  fifth  floor  of  an  old  house 
they  had  found  a  flat  of  three  rooms  and  a  kitchen,  all  very 
small,  and  looking  on  to  a  tiny  garden  inclosed  by  four  high 
walls.  From  their  windows  they  looked  out  over  the  opposite^ 
wall,  which  was  lower  than  the  rest,  on  to  one  of  those  large 
convent  gardens  which  are  still  to  be  found  in  Paris,  hidden 
and  unknown.  Not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen  in  the  deserted  ave- 
nues. The  old  trees,  taller  and  more  leafy  than  those  in  the 
Luxembourg  Gardens,  trembled  in  the  sunlight:  troops  of 


312  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

birds  sang:  in  the  early  dawn  the  blackbirds  fluted,  and  then 
there  came  the  riotously  rhythmic  chorus  of  the  sparrows:  and 
in  summer  in  the  evening  the  rapturous  cries  of  the  swifts 
cleaving  the  luminous  air  and  skimming  through  the  heavens. 
And  at  night,  under  the  moon,  like  bubbles  of  air  mounting 
to  the  surface  of  a  pond,  there  came  up  the  pearly  notes  of  the 
toads.  Almost  they  might  have  forgotten  the  surrounding  pres- 
ence of  Paris  but  that  the  old  house  was  perpetually  shaken  by 
the  heavy  vehicles  rumbling  by,  as  though  the  earth  beneath 
were  shivering  in  a  fever. 

One  of  the  rooms  was  larger  and  finer  than  the  rest,  and 
there  was  a  struggle  between  the  friends  as  to  who  should  not 
have  it.  They  had  to  toss  for  it:  and  Christophe,  who  had 
made  the  suggestion,  contrived  not  to  win  with  a  dexterity 
of  which  he  found  it  hard  to  believe  himself  capable. 

Then  for  the  two  of  them  there  began  a  period  of  absolute 
happiness.  Their  happiness  lay  not  in  any  one  thing,  but  in 
all  things  at  once:  their  every  thought,  their  every  act,  were 
steeped  in  it,  and  it  never  left  them  for  a  moment. 

During  this  honeymoon  of  their  friendship,  the  first  days 
of  deep  and  silent  rejoicing,  known  only  to  him  "  who  in  all 
the  universe  can  call  one  soul  his  own"  .  .  .  Ja,  wer 
auch  nur  eine  Seele  sein  nennt  auf  dem  Erdenrund  .  .  .  they 
hardly  spoke  to  each  other,  they  dared  hardly  breathe  a  word; 
it  was  enough  for  them  to  feel  each  other's  nearness,  to  exchange 
a  look,  a  word  in  token  that  their  thoughts,  after  long  periods  of 
silence,  still  ran  in  the  same  channel.  Without  probing  or  in- 
quiring, without  even  looking  at  each  other,  yet  unceasingly 
they  watched  each  other.  Unconsciously  the  lover  takes  for  model 
the  soul  of  the  beloved:  so  great  is  his  desire  to  give  no  hurt, 
to  be  in  all  things  as  the  beloved,  that  with  mysterious  and 
sudden  intuition  he  marks  the  imperceptible  movements  in  the 
depths  of  his  soul.  One  friend  to  another  is  crystal-clear :  they 
exchange  entities.  Their  features  are  assimilated.  Soul  imi- 
tates soul, — until  that  day  comes  when  deep-moving  force,  the 


THE  HOUSE  313 

spirit  of  the  race,  bursts  his  bonds  and  rends  asunder  the  web 
of  love  in  which  he  is  held  captive. 

Christophe  spoke  in  low  tones,  walked  softly,  tried  hard 
to  make  no  noise  in  his  room,  which  was  next  to  that  of  the 
silent  Olivier:  he  was  transfigured  by  his  friendship:  he  had 
an  expression  of  happiness,  confidence,  youth,  such  as  he  had 
never  worn  before.  He  adored  Olivier.  It  would  have  been 
easy  for  the  boy  to  abuse  his  power  if  he  had  not  been  so 
timorous  in  feeling  that  it  was  a  happiness  undeserved:  for 
he  thought  himself  much  inferior  to  Christophe,  who  in  his  turn 
was  no  less  humble.  This  mutual  humility,  the  product  of 
their  great  love  for  each  other,  was  an  added  joy.  It  was  a 
pure  delight — even  with  the  consciousness  of  unworthiness — 
for  each  to  feel  that  he  filled  so  great  a  room  in  the  heart  of  his 
friend.  Each  to  other  they  were  tender  and  filled  with 
gratitude. 

Olivier  had  mixed  his  books  with  Christophe's :  they  made 
no  distinction.  When  he  spoke  of  them  he  did  not  say  "  my 
book,"  but  "  our  book."  He  kept  back  only  a  few  things  from 
the  common  stock:  those  which  had  belonged  to  his  sister  or 
were  bound  up  with  her  memory.  With  the  quick  perception  of 
love  Christophe  was  not  slow  to  notice  this:  but  he  did  not 
know  the  reason  of  it.  He  had  never  dared  to  ask  Olivier 
about  his  family:  he  only  knew  that  Olivier  had  lost  his 
parents :  and  to  the  somewhat  proud  reserve  of  his  affection, 
which  forbade  his  prying  into  his  friend's  secrets,  there  was 
added  a  fear  of  calling  to  life  in  him  the  sorrows  of  the  past. 
Though  he  might  long  to  do  so,  yet  he  was  strangely  timid  and 
never  dared  to  look  closely  at  the  photographs  on  Olivier's 
desk,  portraits  of  a  lady  and  a  gentleman  stiffly  posed,  and  a 
little  girl  of  twelve  with  a  great  spaniel  at  her  feet. 

A  few  months  after  they  had  taken  up  their  quarters  Olivier 
caught  cold  and  had  to  stay  in  bed.  Christophe,  who  had  be- 
come quite  motherly,  nursed  him  with  fond  anxiety:  and  the 
doctor,  who,  on  examining  Olivier,  had  found  a  little  inflam- 
mation at  the  top  of  the  lungs,  told  Christophe  to  smear  the 


314  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

invalid's  chest  with  tincture  of  iodine.  As  Christophe  was 
gravely  acquitting  himself  of  the  task  he  saw  a  confirmation 
medal  hanging  from  Olivier's  neck.  He  was  familiar  enough 
with  Olivier  to  know  that  he  was  even  more  emancipated  in 
matters  of  religion  than  himself.  He  could  not  refrain  from 
showing  his  surprise.  Olivier  colored  and  said: 

"It  is  a  souvenir.  My  poor  sister  Antoinette  was  wearing 
it  when  she  died." 

Christophe  trembled.  The  name  of  Antoinette  struck  him 
like  a  flash  of  lightning. 

"Antoinette?"  he  said. 

"  My  sister,"  said  Olivier. 

Christophe  repeated: 

"Antoinette  .  .  .  Antoinette  Jeannin.  .  .  .  She  was  your 
sister?  .  .  .  But,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  at  the  photograph 
on  the  desk,  "  she  was  quite  a  child  when  you  lost  her  ?  " 

Olivier  smiled  sadly. 

"It  is  a  photograph  of  her  as  a  child,"  he  said.  "Alas!  I 
have  no  other.  .  .  .  She  was  twenty-five  when  she  left  me." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Christophe,  who  was  greatly  moved.  "  And 
she  was  in  Germany,  was  she  not?" 

Olivier  nodded. 

Christophe  took  Olivier's  hands  in  his. 

"  I  knew  her,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  replied  Olivier. 

And  he  flung  his  arms  round  Christophe's  neck. 

"  Poor  girl !  Poor  girl ! "  said  Christophe  over  and  over 
again. 

They  were  both  in  tears. 

Christophe  remembered  then  that  Olivier  was  ill.  He  tried 
to  calm  him,  and  made  him  keep  his  arms  inside  the  bed,  and 
tucked  the  clothes  up  round  his  shoulders,  and  dried  his  eyes 
for  him,  and  then  sat  down  by  the  bedside  and  looked  long  at 
him. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  that  is  how  I  knew  you.  I  recognized 
you  at  once.,  that  first  evening." 


THE  HOUSE  315 

(It  were  hard  to  tell  whether  he  was  speaking  of  the  present 
or  the  absent  friend.) 

"  But/'  he  went  on  a  moment  later,  "  you  knew  ?  .  .  . 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  " 

And  through  Olivier's  eyes  Antoinette  replied: 

"  I  could  not  tell  you.     You  had  to  see  it  for  yourself." 

They  said  nothing  for  some  time:  then,  in  the  silence  of  the 
night,  Olivier,  lying  still  in  bed,  in  a  low  voice  told  Christophe, 
who  held  his  hand,  poor  Antoinette's  story : — but  he  did  not  tell 
him  what  he  had  no  right  to  tell;  the  secret  that  she  had  kept 
locked, — the  secret  that  perhaps  Christophe  knew  already  with- 
out needing  to  be  told. 

From,  that  time  on  the  soul  of  Antoinette  was  ever  near 
them.  When  they  were  together  she  was  with  them.  They 
had  no  need  to  think  of  her:  every  thought  they  shared  was 
shared  with  her  too.  Her  love  was  the  meeting-place  wherein 
their  two  hearts  were  united. 

Often  Olivier  would  conjure  up  the  image  of  her:  scraps  of 
memory  and  brief  anecdotes.  In  their  fleeting  light  they  gave 
a  glimpse  of  her  shy,  gracious  gestures,  her  grave,  young  smile, 
the  pensive,  wistful  grace  that  was  so  natural  to  her.  Chris- 
tophe would  listen  without  a  word  and  let  the  light  of  the  un- 
seen friend  pierce  to  his  very  soul.  In  obedience  to  the  law  of 
his  own  nature,  which  everywhere  and  always  drank  in  life 
more  greedily  than  any  other,  he  would  sometimes  hear  in 
Olivier's  words  depths  of  sound  which  Olivier  himself  could 
not  hear:  and  more  than  Olivier  he  would  assimilate  the  es- 
sence of  the  girl  who  was  dead. 

Instinctively  he  supplied  her  place  in  Olivier's  life:  and 
it  was  a  touching  sight  to  see  the  awkward  German  hap  un- 
wittingly on  certain  of  the  delicate  attentions  and  little  mother- 
ing ways  of  Antoinette.  Sometimes  he  could  not  tell  whether 
it  was  Olivier  that  he  loved  in  Antoinette  or  Antoinette  in 
Olivier.  Sometimes  on  a  tender  impulse,  without  saying  any- 
thing, he  would  go  and  visit  Antoinette's  grave  and  lay 
flowers  on  it.  It  was  some  time  before  Olivier  had  any  idea 


316  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

of  it.  He  did  not  discover  it  until  one  day  when  he  found 
fresh  flowers  on  the  grave :  but  he  had  some  difficulty  in  proving 
that  it  was  Christophe  who  had  laid  them  there.  When  he  tried 
bashfully  to  speak  about  it  Christophe  cut  him  short  roughly 
and  abruptly.  He  did  not  want  Olivier  to  know :  and  he  stuck 
to  it  until  one  day  when  they  met  in  the  cemetery  at  Ivry. 

Olivier,  on  his  part,  used  to  write  to  Christophe's  mother 
without  letting  him  know.  He  gave  Louisa  news  of  her  son, 
and  told  her  how  fond  he  was  of  him  and  how  he  admired  him. 
Louisa  would  send  Olivier  awkward,  humble  letters  in  which 
she  thanked  him  profusely:  she  used  always  to  write  of  her 
son  as  though  he  were  a  little  boy. 

After  a  period  of  fond  semi-silence — "a  delicious  time  of 
peace  and  enjoyment  without  knowing  why," — their  tongues 
were  loosed.  They  spent  hours  in  voyages  of  discovery,  each 
in  the  other's  soul. 

They  were  very  different,  but  they  were  both  pure  metal. 
They  loved  each  other  because  they  were  so  different  though  so 
much  the  same. 

Olivier  was  weak,  delicate,  incapable  of  fighting  against  dif- 
ficulties. When  he  came  up  against  an  obstacle  he  drew  back, 
not  from  fear,  but  something  from  timidity,  and  more  from 
disgust  with  the  brutal  and  coarse  means  he  would  have  to  em- 
ploy to  overcome  it.  He  earned  his  living  by  giving  classes, 
and  writing  art-books,  shamefully  underpaid,  as  usual,  and 
occasionally  articles  for  reviews,  in  which  he  never  had  a  free 
hand  and  had  to  deal  with  subjects  in  which  he  was  not 
greatly  interested: — there  was  no  demand  for  the  things  that 
did  interest  him :  he  was  never  asked  for  the  sort  of  thing  he 
could  do  best :  he  was  a  poet  and  was  asked  for  criticism :  he 
knew  something  about  music  and  he  had  to  write  about  painting : 
he  knew  quite  well  that  he  could  only  say  mediocre  things, 
which  was  just  what  people  liked,  for  there  he  could  speak  to 
mediocre  minds  in  a  language  which  they  could  understand. 
He  grew  disgusted  with  it  all  and  refused  to  write.  He  had 
no  pleasure  except  in  writing  for  certain  obscure  periodicals, 


THE  HOUSE  317 

which  never  paid  anything,  and,  like  so  many  other  young  men, 
he  devoted  his  talents  to  them  because  they  left  him  a  free 
hand.  Only  in  their  pages  could  he  publish  what  was  worthy  of 
publicity. 

He  was  gentle,  well-mannered,  seemingly  patient,  though  he 
was  excessively  sensitive.  A  harsh  word  drew  blood:  injustice 
overwhelmed  him:  he  suffered  both  on  his  own  account  and 
for  others.  Certain  crimes,  committed  ages  ago,  still  had  the 
power  to  rend  him  as  though  he  himself  had  been  their  victim. 
He  would  go  pale,  and  shudder,  and  be  utterly  miserable  as 
he  thought  how  wretched  he  must  have  been  who  suffered  them, 
and  how  many  ages  cut  him  off  from  his  sympathy.  When  any 
unjust  deed  was  done  before  his  eyes  he  would  be  wild  with 
indignation  and  tremble  all  over,  and  sometimes  become  quite 
ill  and  lose  his  sleep.  It  was  because  he  knew  his  weakness 
that  he  drew  on  his  mask  of  calmness:  for  when  he  was  angry 
he  knew  that  he  went  beyond  all  limits  and  was  apt  to  say 
unpardonable  things.  People  were  more  resentful  with  him 
than  with  Christophe,  who  was  always  violent,  because  it  seemed 
that  in  moments  of  anger  Olivier,  much  more  than  Christophe, 
expressed  exactly  what  he  thought:  and  that  was  true.  He 
judged  men  and  women  without  Christophe's  blind  exaggeration, 
but  lucidly  and  without  his  illusions.  And  that  is  precisely 
what  people  do  pardon  the  least  readily.  In  such  cases  he 
would  say  nothing  and  avoid  discussion,  knowing  its  futility. 
He  had  suffered  from  this  restraint.  He  had  suffered  more 
from  his  timidity,  which  sometimes  led  him  to  betray  his 
thoughts,  or  deprived  him  of  the  courage  to  defend  his  thoughts 
conclusively,  and  even  to  apologize  for  them,  as  had  happened 
in  the  argument  with  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  about  Christophe. 
He  had  passed  through  many  crises  of  despair  before  he  had 
been  able  to  strike  a  compromise  between  himself  and  the  rest 
of  the  world.  In  his  youth  and  budding  manhood,  when  his 
nerves  were  not  hopelessly  out  of  order,  he  lived  in  a  perpetual 
alternation  of  periods  of  exaltation  and  periods  of  depression 
which  came  and  went  with  horrible  suddenness.  Just  when 


318  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

he  was  feeling  most  at  his  ease  and  even  happy  he  was  very 
certain  that  sorrow  was  lying  in  wait  for  him.  And  suddenly 
it  would  lay  him  low  without  giving  any  warning  of  its  coming. 
And  it  was  not  enough  for  him  to  be  unhappy :  he  had  to  blame 
himself  for  his  unhappiness,  and  hold  an  inquisition  into  his 
every  word  and  deed,  and  his  honesty,  and  take  the  side  of  other 
people  against  himself.  His  heart  would  throb  in  his  bosom,  he 
would  struggle  miserably,  and  he  would  scarcely  be  able  to 
breathe. — Since  the  death  of  Antoinette,  and  perhaps  thanks  to 
her,  thanks  to  the  peace-giving  light  that  issues  from  the  be- 
loved dead,  as  the  light  of  dawn  brings  refreshment  to  the 
eyes  and  soul  of  those  who  are  sick,  Olivier  had  contrived,  if 
not  to  break  away  from  these  difficulties,  at  least  to  be  resigned 
to  them  and  to  master  them.  Very  few  had  any  idea  of  his  in- 
ward struggles.  The  humiliating  secret  was  locked  up  in  his 
breast,  all  the  immoderate  excitement  of  a  weak,  tormented 
body,  surveyed  serenely  by  a  free  and  keen  intelligence  which 
could  not  master  it,  though  it  was  never  touched  by  it, — 
"  the  central  peace  which  endures  amid  the  endless  agitation  of 
the  heart." 

Christophe  marked  it.  This  it  was  that  he  saw  in  Olivier's 
eyes.  Olivier  had  an  intuitive  perception  of  the  souls  of 
men,  and  a  mind  of  a  wide,  subtle  curiosity  that  was  open  to 
everything,  denied  nothing,  hated  nothing,  and  contemplated 
the  world  and  things  with  generous  sympathy :  that  freshness 
of  outlook,  which  is  a  priceless  gift,  granting  the  power  to  taste 
with  a  heart  that  is  always  new  the  eternal  renewal  and  re-birth. 
In  that  inward  universe,  wherein  he  knew  himself  to  be  free, 
vast,  sovereign,  he  could  forget  his  physical  weakness  and 
agony.  There  was  even  a  certain  pleasure  in  watching  from 
a  great  height,  with  ironic  pity,  that  poor  suffering  body  which 
seemed  always  so  near  the  point  of  death.  So  there  was  no 
danger  of  his  clinging  to  his  life,  and  only  the  more  passionately 
did  he  hug  life  itself.  Olivier  translated  into  the  region  of 
love  and  mind  all  the  forces  which  in  action  he  had  abdicated. 
He  had  not  enough  vital  sap  to  live  by  his  own  substance. 


THE  HOUSE  319 

He  was  as  ivy :  it  was  needful  for  him  to  cling.  He  was  never 
so  rich  as  when  he  gave  himself.  His  was  a  womanish  soul 
with  its  eternal  need  of  loving  and  being  loved.  He  was  born 
for  Christophe,  and  Christophe  for  him.  Such  are  the  aristo- 
cratic and  charming  friends  who  are  the  escorts  of  the  great 
artists  and  seem  to  have  come  to  flower  in  the  lives  of  their 
mighty  souls:  Beltraffio,  the  friend  of  Leonardo:  Cavalliere  of 
Michael  Angelo:  the  gentle  Umbrians,  the  comrades  of  young 
Eaphael :  Aert  van  Gelder,  who  remained  faithful  to  Rem- 
brandt in  his  poor  old  age.  They  have  not  the  greatness  of  the 
masters:  but  it  is  as  though  all  the  purity  and  nobility  of 
the  masters  in  their  friends  were  raised  to  a  yet  higher  spiritual 
power.  They  are  the  ideal  companions  for  men  of  genius. 

Their  friendship  was  profitable  to  both  of  them.  Love  lends 
wings  to  the  soul.  The  presence  of  the  beloved  friend  gives 
all  its  worth  to  life:  a  man  lives  for  his  friend  and  for  his 
sake  defends  his  soul's  integrity  against  the  wearing  force  of 
time. 

Each  enriched  the  other's  nature.  Olivier  had  serenity  of 
mind  and  a  sickly  body.  Christophe  had  mighty  strength  and 
a  stormy  soul.  They  were  in  some  sort  like  a  blind  man  and  a 
cripple.  Now  that  they  were  together  they  felt  sound  and 
strong.  Living  in  the  shadow  of  Christophe  Olivier  recovered 
his  joy  in  the  light:  Christophe  transmitted  to  him  something 
of  his  abounding  vitality,  his  physical  and  moral  robustness, 
which,  even  in  sorrow,  even  in  injustice,  even  in  hate,  inclined 
to  optimism.  He  took  much  more  than  he  gave,  in  obedience 
to  the  law  of  genius,  which  gives  in  vain,  but  in  love  always 
takes  more  than  it  gives,  quia  nominor  leo,  because  it  is  genius, 
and  genius  half  consists  in  the  instinctive  absorption  of  all 
that  is  great  in  its  surroundings  and  making  it  greater  still. 
The  vulgar  saying  has  it  that  riches  go  to  the  rich.  Strength 
goes  to  the  strong.  Christophe  fed  on  Olivier's  ideas:  he  im- 
pregnated himself  with  his  intellectual  calmness  and  mental  de- 
tachment, his  lofty  outlook,  his  silent  understanding  and  mastery 
of  things.  But  when  they  were  transplanted  into  him,  the 


320  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

richer  soil,  the  virtues  of  his  friend  grew  with  a  new  and  other 
energy. 

They  both  marveled  at  the  things  they  discovered  in  each 
other.  There  were  so  many  things  to  share!  Each  brought 
vast  treasures  of  which  till  then  he  had  never  been  conscious : 
the  moral  treasure  of  his  nation:  Olivier  the  wide  culture  and 
the  psychological  genius  of  France:  Christophe  the  innate 
music  of  Germany  and  his  intuitive  knowledge  of  nature. 

Christophe  could  not  understand  how  Olivier  could  be  a 
Frenchman.  His  friend  was  so  little  like  all  the  Frenchmen 
he  had  met!  Before  he  found  Olivier  he  had  not  been  far 
from  taking  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  as  the  type  of  the  modern 
French  mind,  Levy-Cceur  who  was  no  more  than  the  caricature 
of  it.  And  now  through  Olivier  he  saw  that  there  might  be  in 
Paris  minds  just  as  free,  more  free  indeed  than  that  of  Lucien 
Levy-Cceur,  men  who  remained  as  pure  and  stoical  as  any  in 
Europe.  Christophe  tried  to  prove  to  Olivier  that  he  and  his 
sister  could  not  be  altogether  French. 

"  My  poor  dear  fellow,"  said  Olivier,  "  what  do  you  know  of 
France?" 

Christophe  avowed  the  trouble  he  had  taken  to  gain  some 
knowledge  of  the  country:  he  drew  up  a  list  of  all  the  French- 
men he  had  met  in  the  circle  of  the  Stevens  and  the  Roussins: 
Jews,  Belgians,  Luxemburgers,  Americans,  Russians,  Levan- 
tines, and  here  and  there  a  few  authentic  Frenchmen. 

"Just  what  I  was  saying,"  replied  Olivier.  "You  haven't 
seen  a  single  Frenchman.  A  group  of  debauchees,  a  few  beasts 
of  pleasure,  who  are  not  even  French,  men-about-town,  politi- 
cians, useless  creatures,  all  the  fuss  and  flummery  which  passes 
over  and  above  the  life  of  the  nation  without  even  touching  it. 
You  have  only  seen  the  swarms  of  wasps  attracted  by  a  fine 
autumn  and  the  rich  meadows.  You  haven't  noticed  the  busy 
hives,  the  industrious  city,  the  thirst  for  knowledge." 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  Christophe,  "  I've  come  across  your  in- 
tellectual elite  as  well." 

"What?    A  few  dozen  men  of  letters?    They're  a  fine  lot! 


THE  HOUSE  321 

Nowadays  when  science  and  action  play  so  great  a  part  literature 
has  become  superficial,  no  more  than  the  bed  where  the  thought 
of  the  people  sleeps.     And  in  literature  you  have  only  come 
across  the  theater,  the  theater  of  luxury,  an  international  kitchen 
where  dishes  are  turned  out  for  the  wealthy  customers  of  the 
cosmopolitan  hotels.     The  theaters  of  Paris?     Do  you  think  a 
working-man  even  knows  what  is  being  done  in  them  ?    Pasteur 
did  not  go  to  them  ten  times  in  all  his  life !     Like  all  foreigners 
you  attach  an  exaggerated  importance  to  our  novels,  and  our 
boulevard  plays,  and  the  intrigues  of  our  politicians.   ...     If 
you  like  I  will  show  you  women  who  never  read  novels,  girls  in 
Paris  who  have  never  been  to  the  theater,  men  who  have  never 
bothered  their  heads  about  politics, — yes,  even  among  our  in- 
tellectuals.    You   have   not   come    across   either   our   men    of 
science  or  our  poets.     You  have  not  discovered   the   solitary 
artists  who  languish  in  silence,  nor  the  burning  flame  of  our 
revolutionaries.     You  have  not  seen  a  single  great  believer,  or  a 
single  great   skeptic.     As   for   the   people,   we   won't  talk   of 
them.     Outside  the  poor  woman  who  looked  after  you,  what 
do  you  know  of  them?     Where  have  you  had  a  chance  of  seeing 
them?     How  many   Parisians  have  you  met  who  have  lived 
higher  than  the  second  or  third  floor  ?     If  you  do  not  know  these 
people,  you  do  not  know  France.   You  know  nothing  of  the  brave 
true  hearts,  the  men  and  women  living  in  poor  lodgings,  in  the 
garrets  of  Paris,  in  the  dumb  provinces,  men  and  women  who, 
through  a  dull,  drab  life,  think  grave  thoughts,  and  live  in 
daily  sacrifice, — the  little  Church,  which  has  always  existed  in 
France — small  in  numbers,  great  in  spirit,  almost  unknown, 
having  no  outward  or  apparent  force  of  action,  though  it  is  the 
very  force  of  France,  that  might  which   endures   in  silence, 
while  the  so-called  elite  rots  away  and  springs  to  life  again 
unceasingly.   .    .    .     You  are  amazed  when  you  find  a  French- 
man who  lives  not  for  the  sake  of  happiness,  happiness   at 
all  costs,  but  to  accomplish  or  to  serve  his  faith?     There  are 
thousands  of  men  like  myself,  men  more  worthy  than  myself, 
more  pious,  more  humble,  men  who  to  their  dying  day  live  un- 


322  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

failingly  to  serve  an  ideal,  a  God,  who  vouchsafes  them  no  reply. 
You  know  nothing  of  the  thrifty,  methodical,  industrious,  tran- 
quil middle-class  living  with  a  quenchless  dormant  flame  in  their 
hearts — the  people  betrayed  and  sacrificed  who  in  old  days  de- 
fended '  my  country '  against  the  selfish  arrogance  of  the 
great,  the  blue-eyed  ancient  race  of  Vauban.  You  do  not  know 
the  people,  you  do  not  know  the  elite.  Have  you  read  a  single 
one  of  the  books  which  are  our  faithful  friends,  the  companions 
who  support  us  in  our  lives?  Do  you  even  know  of  the  ex- 
istence of  our  young  reviews  in  which  such  great  faith  and 
devotion  are  expressed?  Have  you  any  idea  of  the  men  of 
moral  might  and  worth  who  are  as  the  sun  to  us,  the  sun  whose 
voiceless  light  strikes  terror  to  the  army  of  the  hypocrites? 
They  dare  not  make  a  frontal  attack:  they  bow  before  them, 
the  better  to  betray  them.  The  hypocrite  is  a  slave,  and  there 
is  no  slave  but  he  has  a  master.  You  know  only  the  slaves: 
you  know  nothing  of  the  masters.  .  .  .  You  have  watched 
our  struggles  and  they  have  seemed  to  you  brutish  and  un- 
meaning because  you  have  not  understood  their  aim.  You 
see  the  shadow,  the  reflected  light  of  day:  you  have  never  seen 
the  inward  day,  our  age-old  immemorial  spirit.  Have  you  ever 
tried  to  perceive  it?  Have  you  ever  heard  of  our  heroic  deeds 
from  the  Crusades  to  the  Commune?  Have  you  ever  seen  and 
felt  the  tragedy  of  the  French  spirit?  Have  you  ever  stood  at 
the  brink  of  the  abyss  of  Pascal?  How  dare  you  slander  a  peo- 
ple who  for  more  than  a  thousand  years  have  been  living  in 
action  and  creation,  a  people  that  has  graven  the  world  in  its 
own  image  through  Gothic  art,  and  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  the  Eevolution, — a  people  that  has  twenty  times  passed 
through  the  ordeal  of  fire,  and  plunged  into  it  again,  and  twenty 
times  has  come  to  life  again  and  never  yet  has  perished !  .  .  . 
— You  are  all  the  same.  All  your  countrymen  who  come 
among  us  see  only  the  parasites  who  suck  our  blood,  literary, 
political,  and  financial  adventurers,  with  their  minions  and 
their  hangers-on  and  their  harlots:  and  they  judge  France  by 
these  wretched  creatures  who  prey  on  her.  Not  one  of  you  has 


THE  HOUSE  323 

any  idea  of  the  real  France  living  under  oppression,  or  of  the 
reserve  of  vitality  in  the  French  provinces,  or  of  the  great 
mass  of  the  people  who  go  on  working  heedless  of  the  uproar 
and  pother  made  by  their  masters  of  a  day.  .  .  .  Yes:  it  is 
only  natural  that  you  should  know  nothing  of  all  this:  I  do 
not  blame  you:  how  could  you?  Why,  France  is  hardly  at  all 
known  to  the  French.  The  best  of  us  are  bound  down  and 
held  captive  to  our  native  soil.  .  .  .  No  one  will  ever  know 
all  that  we  have  suffered,  we  who  have  guarded  as  a  sacred 
charge  the  light  in  our  hearts  which  we  have  received  from 
the  genius  of  our  race,  to  which  we  cling  with  all  our  might, 
desperately  defending  it  against  the  hostile  winds  that  strive 
blusteringly  to  snuff  it  out; — we  are  alone  and  in  our  nostrils 
stinks  the  pestilential  atmosphere  of  these  harpies  who  have 
swarmed  about  our  genius  like  a  thick  cloud  of  flies,  whose 
hideous  grubs  gnaw  at  our  minds  and  defile  our  hearts : — we  are 
betrayed  by  those  whose  duty  it  is  to  defend  us,  our  leaders,  our 
idiotic  and  cowardly  critics,  who  fawn  upon  the  enemy,  to  win 
pardon  for  being  of  our  race : — we  are  deserted  by  the  people  who 
give  no  thought  to  us  and  do  not  even  know  of  our  existence.  .  .  . 
By  what  means  can  we  make  ourselves  known  to  them?  We 
cannot  reach  them.  .  .  .  Ah!  that  is  the  hardest  thing  of 
all !  We  know  that  there  are  thousands  of  men  in  France  who 
all  thi-nk  as  we  do,  we  know  that  we  speak  in  their  name,  and  we 
cannot  gain  a  hearing!  Everything  is  in  the  hands  of  the 
enemy:  newspapers,  reviews,  theaters.  .  .  .  The  Press  scur- 
ries away  from  ideas  or  admits  them  only  as  an  instrument  of 
pleasure  or  a  party  weapon.  The  cliques  and  coteries  will  only 
suffer  us  to  break  through  on  condition  that  we  degrade  our- 
selves. We  are  crushed  by  poverty  and  overwork.  The  politi- 
cians, pursuing  nothing  but  wealth,  are  only  interested  in  that 
section  of  the  public  which  they  can  buy.  The  middle-class 
is  selfish  and  indifferent,  and  unmoved  sees  us  perish.  The 
people  know  nothing  of  our  existence :  even  those  who  are  fight- 
ing the  same  fight  like  us  are  cut  off  by  silence  and  do  not 
know  that  we  exist,  and  we  do  not  know  that  they  exist.  .  .  , 


324  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

Ill-omened  Paris!  No  doubt  good  also  has  come  of  it — by 
gathering  together  all  the  forces  of  the  French  mind  and  genius. 
But  the  evil  it  has  done  is  at  least  equal  to  the  good :  and  in  a 
time  like  the  present  the  good  quickly  turns  to  evil.  A  pseudo- 
elite  fastens  on  Paris  and  blows  the  loud  trumpet  of  publicity 
and  the  voices  of  all  the  rest  of  France  are  drowned.  More 
than  that:  France  herself  is  deceived  by  it:  she  is  scared  and 
silent  and  fearfully  locks  away  her  own  ideas.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  time  when  it  hurt  me  dreadfully.  But  now,  Christophe,  I 
can  bear  it  calmly.  I  know  and  understand  my  own  strength 
and  the  might  of  my  people.  We  must  wait  until  the  flood  dies 
down.  It  cannot  touch  or  change  the  bed-rock  of  France.  I 
will  make  you  feel  that  bed-rock  under  the  mud  that  is  borne 
onward  by  the  flood.  And  even  now,  here  and  there,  there  are 
lofty  peaks  appearing  above  the  waters.  ..." 

Christophe  discovered  the  mighty  power  of  idealism  which 
animated  the  French  poets,  musicians,  and  men  of  science  of 
his  time.  While  the  temporary  masters  of  the  country  with 
their  coarse  sensuality  drowned  the  voice  of  the  French  genius, 
it  showed  itself  too  aristocratic  to  vie  with  the  presumptuous 
shouts  of  the  rabble  and  sang  on  with  burning  ardor  in  its  own 
praise  and  the  praise  of  its  God.  It  was  as  though  in  its  desire 
to  escape  the  revolting  uproar  of  the  outer  world  it  had  with- 
drawn to  the  farthest  refuge  in  the  innermost  depths  of  its 
castle-keep. 

The  poets — that  is,  those  only  who  were  worthy  of  that 
splendid  name,  so  bandied  by  the  Press  and  the  Academies 
and  doled  out  to  divers  windbags  greedy  of  money  and  flattery — 
the  poets,  despising  impudent  rhetoric  and  that  slavish  realism 
which  nibbles  at  the  surface  of  things  without  penetrating  to 
reality,  had  intrenched  themselves  in  the  very  center  of  the 
soul,  in  a  mystic  vision  into  which  was  drawn  the  universe  of 
form  and  idea,  like  a  torrent  falling  into  a  lake,  there  to  take 
on  the  color  of  the  inward  life.  The  very  intensity  of  this 
idealism,  which  withdrew  into  itself  to  recreate  the  universe, 
made  it  inaccessible  to  the  mob.  Christophe  himself  did  not 


THE  HOUSE  325 

understand  it  at  first.  The  transition  was  too  abrupt  after  the 
market-place.  It  was  as  though  he  had  passed  from  a  furious 
rush  and  scramble  in  the  hot  sunlight  into  silence  and  the  night. 
His  ears  buzzed.  He  could  see  nothing.  At  first,  with  his 
ardent  love  of  life,  he  was  shocked  by  the  contrast.  Outside  was 
the  roaring  of  the  rushing  streams  of  passion  overturning  France 
and  stirring  all  humanity.  And  at  the  first  glance  there  was  not 
a  trace  of  it  in  this  art  of  theirs.  Christophe  asked  Olivier: 

"You  have  been  lifted  to  the  stars  and  hurled  down  to 
the  depths  of  hell  by  your  Dreyfus  affair.  Where  is  the  poet 
in  whose  soul  the  height  and  depth  of  it  were  felt?  Now,  at 
this  very  moment,  in  the  souls  of  your  religious  men  and 
women  there  is  the  mightiest  struggle  there  has  been  for  cen- 
turies between  the  authority  of  the  Church  and  the  rights  of 
conscience.  Where  is  the  poet  in  whose  soul  this  sacred  agony 
is  reflected?  The  working  classes  are  preparing  for  war,  na- 
tions are  dying,  nations  are  springing  to  new  life,  the  Armeni- 
ans are  massacred,  Asia,  awaking  from  its  sleep  of  a  thousand 
years,  hurls  down  the  Muscovite  colossus,  the  keeper  of  the  keys 
of  Europe:  Turkey,  like  Adam,  opens  its  eyes  on  the  light 
of  day :  the  air  is  conquered  by  man :  the  old  earth  cracks  under 
our  feet  and  opens :  it  devours  a  whole  people.  .  .  .  All  these 
prodigies,  accomplished  in  twenty  years,  enough  to  supply 
material  for  twenty  Iliads:  but  where  are  they,  where  shall 
their  fiery  traces  be  found  in  the  books  of  your  poets  ?  Are  they 
of  all  men  unable  to  see  the  poetry  of  the  world  ?  " 

"  Patience,  my  friend,  patience ! "  replied  Olivier.  "  Be 
silent,  say  nothing,  listen.  .  .  ." 

Slowly  the  creaking  of  the  axle-tree  of  the  world  died  away 
and  the  rumbling  over  the  stones  of  the  heavy  car  of  action 
was  lost  in  the  distance.  And  there  arose  the  divine  song  of 
silence.  .  .  . 

The  hum  of  bees,  and  the  perfume  of  the  limes.  .    .    . 

The  wind. 

With  his  golden  lips  kissing  the  earth  of  the  plains.  .   .  t. 
The  soft  sound  of  the  rain  and  the  scent  of  the  roses. 


326  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

There  rang  out  the  hammer  and  chisel  of  the  poets  carving 
the  sides  of  a  vase  with 

The  fine  majesty  of  simple  things, 
solemn,  joyous  life, 

With  its  flutes  of  gold  and  flutes  of  ebony, 
religious  joy,  faith  welling  up  like  a  fountain  of  souls 

For  whom  the  very  darlcness  is  clear,  .    .    . 
and  great  sweet  sorrow,  giving  comfort  and  smiling, 

With  her  austere  face  from  which  there  shines 

A  clearness  beyond  nature,  .    .    . 
and 

Death  serene  with  her  great,  soft  eyes. 

A  symphony  of  harmonious  and  pure  voices.  Not  one  of 
them  had  the  full  sonorousness  of  such  national  trumpets  as 
were  Corneille  and  Hugo:  but  how  much  deeper  and  more 
subtle  in  expression  was  their  music!  The  richest  music  in 
Europe  of  to-day. 

Olivier  said  to  Christophe,  who  was  silent: 

"  Do  you  understand  now  ?  " 

Christophe  in  his  turn  bade  him  be  silent.  In  spite  of  him- 
self, and  although  he  preferred  more  manly  music,  yet  he  drank 
in  the  murmuring  of  the  woods  and  fountains  of  the  soul 
which  came  whispering  to  his  ears.  Amid  the  passing  struggles 
of  the  nations  they  sang  the  eternal  youth  of  the  world,  the 

Sweet  goodness   of  Beauty. 
While  humanity, 

Screaming  with  terror  and  yelping  its  complaint 
Marched  round  and  round  a  barren  gloomy  field, 

while  millions  of  men  and  women  wore  themselves  out  in 
wrangling  for  the  bloody  rags  of  liberty,  the  fountains  and  the 
woods  sang  on: 

"Free!  .   .   .     Free!  .   .   .     Sanctus,  Sanctus.  ..   .   ." 


THE  HOUSE  327 

And  yet  they  slept  not  in  any  dream  selfishly  serene.  In  the 
choir  of  the  poets  there  were  not  wanting  tragic  voices:  voices 
of  pride,  voices  of  love,  voices  of  agony. 

A  blind  hurricane,  mad,  intoxicated 

With  its  own  rough  force  or  gentleness  profound, 

tumultuous  forces,  the  epic  of  the  illusions  of  those  who 
sing  the  wild  fever  of  the  crowd,  the  conflicts  of  human  gods, 
the  breathless  toilers, 

Faces  inky  Hack  and  golden  peering  through  darkness  and 

mist, 

Muscular  backs  stretching,  or  suddenly  crouching 
Round  mighty  furnaces  and  gigantic  anvils  .    .    . 

forging  the  City  of  the  Future. 

In  the  flickering  light  and  shadow  falling  on  the  glaciers 
of  the  mind  there  was  the  heroic  bitterness  of  those  solitary 
souls  which  devour  themselves  with  desperate  joy. 

Many  of  the  characteristics  of  these  idealists  seemed  to  the 
German  more  German  than  French.  But  all  of  them  had  the 
love  for  the  "  fine  speech  of  France  "  and  the  sap  of  the  myths 
of  Greece  ran  through  their  poetry.  Scenes  of  France  and  daily 
life  were  by  some  hidden  magic  transformed  in  their  eyes  into 
visions  of  Attica.  It  was  as  though  antique  souls  had  come  to 
life  again  in  these  twentieth-century  Frenchmen,  and  longed 
to  fling  off  their  modern  garments  to  appear  again  in  their 
lovely  nakedness. 

Their  poetry  as  a  whole  gave  out  the  perfume  of  a  rich 
civilization  that  has  ripened  through  the  ages,  a  perfume  such  as 
could  not  be  found  anywhere  else  in  Europe.  It  were  impos- 
sible to  forget  it  once  it  had  been  breathed.  It  attracted  for- 
eign artists  from  every  country  in  the  world.  They  became 
French  poets,  almost  bigotedly  French:  and  French  classical 
art  had  no  more  fervent  disciples  than  these  Anglo-Saxons  and 
Flemings  and  Greeks. 


328  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

Christophe,  under  Olivier's  guidance,  was  impregnated  with 
the  pensive  beauty  of  the  Muse  of  France,  while  in  his  heart 
he  found  the  aristocratic  lady  a  little  too  intellectual  for  his 
liking,  and  preferred  a  pretty  girl  of  the  people,  simple,  healthy, 
robust,  who  thinks  and  argues  less,  but  is  more  concerned  with 
love. 

The  same  odor  di  ~bellezza  arose  from  all  French  art,  as 
the  scent  of  ripe  strawberries  and  raspberries  ascends  from 
autumn  woods  warmed  by  the  sun.  French  music  was  like  one 
of  those  little  strawberry  plants,  hidden  in  the  grass,  the  scent 
of  which  sweetens  all  the  air  of  the  woods.  At  first  Chris- 
tophe  had  passed  it  by  without  seeing  it,  for  in  his  own  country 
he  had  been  used  to  whole  thickets  of  music,  much  fuller  and 
bearing  more  brilliant  fruits.  But  now  the  delicate  perfume 
made  him  turn:  with  Olivier's  help  among  the  stones  and 
brambles  and  dead  leaves  which  usurped  the  name  of  music, 
he  discovered  the  subtle  and  ingenuous  art  of  a  handful  of 
musicians.  Amid  the  marshy  fields  and  the  factory  chimneys 
of  democracy,  in  the  heart  of  the  Plaine-Saint-Denis,  in  a  little 
magic  wood  fauns  were  dancing  blithely.  Christophe  was 
amazed  to  hear  the  ironic  and  serene  notes  of  their  flutes  which 
were  like  nothing  he  had  ever  heard : 

"  A  little  reed  sufficed  for  me 
To  make  the  tall  grass  quiver, 
And  all  the  meadow, 
The  willows  sweet, 
And  the  singing  stream  also  : 
A  little  reed  sufficed  for  me 
To  make  the  forest  sing." 

Beneath  the  careless  grace  and  the  seeming  dilettantism  of 
their  little  piano  pieces,  and  songs,  and  French  chamber-music, 
which  German  art  never  deigned  to  notice,  while  Christophe 
himself  had  hitherto  failed  to  see  the  poetic  accomplishment  of 
it  all,  he  now  began  to  see  the  fever  of  renovation,  and  the 
uneasiness, — unknown  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine, — with 


THE  HOUSE  329 

which  French  musicians  were  seeking  in  the  unfilled  fields 
of  their  art*  the  germs  from  which  the  future  might  grow. 
While  German  musicians  sat  stolidly  in  the  encampments  of 
their  forebears,  and  arrogantly  claimed  to  stay  the  evolution 
of  the  world  at  the  barrier  of  their  past  victories,  the  world 
was  moving  onwards:  and  in  the  van  the  French  plunged  on- 
ward to  discovery:  they  explored  the  distant  realms  of  art, 
dead  suns  and  suns  lit  up  once  more,  and  vanished  Greece, 
and  the  Far  East,  after  its  age-long  slumber,  once  more  open- 
ing its  slanting  eyes,  full  of  vasty  dreams,  upon  the  light  of 
day.  In  the  music  of  the  West,  run  off  into  channels  by  the 
genius  of  order  and  classic  reason,  they  opened  up  the  sluices 
of  the  ancient  fashions:  into  their  Versailles  pools  they  turned 
all  the  waters  of  the  universe:  popular  melodies  and  rhythms, 
exotic  and  antique  scales,  new  or  old  beats  and  intervals.  Just 
as,  before  them,  the  impressionist  painters  had  opened  up  a  new 
world  to  the  eyes, — Christopher  Columbuses  of  light, — so  the 
musicians  were  rushing  on  to  the  conquest  of  the  world  of 
Sound ;  they  pressed  on  into  mysterious  recesses  of  the  world  of 
Hearing:  they  discovered  new  lands  in  that  inward  ocean.  It 
was  more  than  probable  that  they  would  do  nothing  with  their 
conquests.  As  usual"  the  French  were  the  harbingers  of  the 
world. 

Christophe  admired  the  initiative  of  their  music  born  of 
yesterday  and  already  marching  in  the  van  of  art.  What 
valiance  there  was  in  the  elegant  tiny  little  creature!  He 
found  indulgence  for  the  follies  that  he  had  lately  seen  in  her. 
Only  those  who  attempt  nothing  never  make  mistakes.  But 
error  struggling  on  towards  the  living  truth  is  more  fruitful  and 
more  blessed  than  dead  truth. 

Whatever  the  results,  the  effort  was  amazing.  Olivier  showed 
Christophe  the  work  done  in  the  last  thirty-five  years,  and  the 
amount  of  energy  expended  in  raising  French  music  from  the 
void  in  which  it  had  slumbered  before  1870:  no  symphonic 
school,  no  profound  culture,  no  traditions,  no  masters,  no 
public:  the  whole  reduced  to  poor  Berlioz,  who  died  of  suf- 


330  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  Itf  PARIS 

focation  and  weariness.  And  now  Christophe  felt  a  great  re- 
spect for  those  who  had  been  the  laborers  in  the"  national  re- 
vival :  he  had  no  desire  now  to  jeer  at  their  esthetic  narrowness 
or  their  lack  of  genius.  They  had  created  something  much 
greater  than  music:  a  musical  people.  Among  all  the  great 
toilers  who  had  forged  the  new  French  music  one  man  was  espe- 
cially dear  to  him :  Cesar  Franck,  who  died  without  seeing  the 
victory  for  which  he  had  paved  the  way,  and  yet,  like  old  Schiitz, 
through  the  darkest  years  of  French  art,  had  preserved  intact 
the  treasure  of  his  faith  and  the  genius  of  his  race.  It  was 
a  moving  thing  to  see:  amid  pleasure-seeking  Paris,  the  angelic 
master,  the  saint  of  music,  in  a  life  of  poverty  and  work 
despised,  preserving  the  unimpeachable  serenity  of  his  patient 
soul,  whose  smile  of  resignation  lit  up  his  music  in  which  is 
such  great  goodness. 

To  Christophe,  knowing  nothing  of  the  depths  of  the  life  of 
France,  this  great  artist,  adhering  to  his  faith  in  the  midst 
of  a  country  of  atheists,  was  a  phenomenon,  almost  a  miracle. 

But  Olivier  would  gently  shrug  his  shoulders  and  ask  if 
any  other  country  in  Europe  could  show  a  painter  so  wholly 
steeped  in  the  spirit  of  the  Bible  as  Francois  Millet; — a  man 
of  science  more  filled  with  burning  faith  and  humility  than  the 
clear-sighted  Pasteur,  bowing  down  before  the  idea  of  the  in- 
finite, and,  when  that  idea  possessed  his  mind,  "  in  bitter  agony  " 
— as  he  himself  has  said — "  praying  that  his  reason  might  be 
spared,  so  near  it  was  to  toppling  over  into  the  sublime  mad- 
ness of  Pascal."  Their  deep-rooted  Catholicism  was  no  more 
a  bar  in  the  way  of  the  heroic  realism  of  the  first  of  these  two 
men,  than  of  the  passionate  reason  of  the  other,  who,  sure  of 
foot  and  not  deviating  by  one  step,  went  his  way  through  "  the 
circles  of  elementary  nature,  the  great  night  of  the  infinitely 
little,  the  ultimate  abysses  of  creation,  in  which  life  is  born." 
It  was  among  the  people  of  the  provinces,  from  which  they 
sprang,  that  they  had  found  this  faith,  which  is  for  ever  brood- 
ing on  the  soil  of  France,  while  in  vain  do  windy  demagogues 


THE  HOUSE  331 

struggle  to  deny  it.  Olivier  knew  well  that  faith :  it  had  lived 
in  his  own  heart  and  mind. 

He  revealed  to  Christophe  the  magnificent  movement  towards 
a  Catholic  revival,  which  had  been  going  on  for  the  last  twenty- 
five  years,  the  mighty  effort  of  the  Christian  idea  in  France  to 
wed  reason,  liberty,  and  life:  the  splendid  priests  who  had  the 
courage,  as  one  of  their  number  said,  "  to  have  themselves 
baptized  as  men,"  and  were  claiming  for  Catholicism  the  right 
to  understand  everything  and  to  join  in  every  honest  idea : 
for  "  every  honest  idea,  even  when  it  is  mistaken,  is  sacred  and 
divine":  the  thousands  of  young  Catholics  banded  by  the  gen- 
erous vow  to  build  a  Christian  Eepublic,  free,  pure,  in  brother- 
hood, open  to  all  men  of  good-will:  and,  in  spite  of  the  odious 
attacks,  the  accusations  of  heresy,  the  treachery  on  all  sides,  right 
and  left, — (especially  on  the  right), — which  these  great  Chris- 
tians had  to  suffer,  the  intrepid  little  legion  advancing  towards 
the  rugged  defile  which  leads  to  the  future,  serene  of  front, 
resigned  to  all  trials  and  tribulations,  knowing  that  no  enduring 
edifice  can  be  built,  except  it  be  welded  together  with  tears 
and  blood. 

The  same  breath  of  living  idealism  and  passionate  liberalism 
brought  new  life  to  the  other  religions  in  France.  The  vast 
slumbering  bodies  of  Protestantism  and  Judaism  were  thrilling 
with  new  life.  All  in  generous  emulation  had  set  themselves 
to  create  the  religion  of  a  free  humanity  which  should  sacrifice 
neither  its  power  for  reason,  nor  its  power  for  enthusiasm. 

This  religious  exaltation  was  not  the  privilege  of  the  religious : 
it  was  the  very  soul  of  the  revolutionary  movement.  There  it 
assumed  a  tragic  character.  Till  now  Christophe  had  only  seen 
the  lowest  form  of  socialism, — that  of  the  politicians  who 
dangled  in  front  of  the  eyes  of  their  famished  constituents  the 
coarse  and  childish  dreams  of  Happiness,  or,  to  be  frank,  of 
universal  Pleasure,  which  Science  in  the  hands  of  Power  could, 
according  to  them,  procure.  Against  such  revolting  optimism 
Christophe  saw  the  furious  mystic  reaction  of  the  elite  arise  to 
lead  the  Syndicates  of  the  working-classes  on  to  battle.  It 


332  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

was  a  summons  to  "  war,  which  engenders  the  sublime,"  to  heroic 
war  "  which  alone  can  give  the  dying  worlds  a  goal,  an  aim,  an 
ideal."  These  great  Revolutionaries,  spitting  out  such 
"bourgeois,  peddling,  peace-mongering,  English"  socialism, 
set  up  against  it  a  tragic  conception  of  the  universe,  "whose 
law  is  antagonism,"  since  it  lives  by  sacrifice,  perpetual  sacrifice, 
eternally  renewed. — If  there  was  reason  to  doubt  that  the  army, 
which  these  leaders  urged  on  to  the  assault  upon  the  old  world, 
could  understand  such  warlike  mysticism,  which  applied  both 
Kant  and  Nietzsche  to  violent  action,  nevertheless  it  was  a  stir- 
ring sight  to  see  the  revolutionary  aristocracy,  whose  blind  pes- 
simism, and  furious  desire  for  heroic  life,  and  exalted  faith  in 
war  and  sacrifice,  were  like  the  militant  religious  ideal  of  some 
Teutonic  Order  or  the  Japanese  Samurai. 

And  yet  they  were  all  Frenchmen :  they  were  of  a  French 
stock  whose  characteristics  have  endured  unchanged  for  cen- 
turies. Seeing  with  Olivier's  eyes  Christophe  marked  them  in 
the  tribunes  and  proconsuls  of  the  Convention,  in  certain  of  the 
thinkers  and  men  of  action  and  French  reformers  of  the  Ancien 
Regime.  Calvinists,  Jansenists,  Jacobins,  Syndicalists,  in  all 
there  was  the  same  spirit  of  pessimistic  idealism,  struggling 
against  nature,  without  illusions  and  without  loss  of  courage : — 
the  iron  bands  which  uphold  the  nation. 

Christophe  drank  in  the  breath  of  these  mystic  struggles,  and 
he  began  to  understand  the  greatness  of  that  fanaticism,  into 
which  France  brought  uncompromising  faith  and  honesty,  such 
as  were  absolutely  unknown  to  other  nations  more  familiar 
with  combinazioni.  Like  all  foreigners  it  had  pleased  him  at 
first  to  be  flippant  about  the  only  too  obvious  contradiction  be- 
tween the  despotic  temper  of  the  French  and  the  magic  formula 
which  their  Republic  wrote  up  on  the  walls  of  their  buildings. 
Now  for  the  first  time  he  began  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  the 
bellicose  Liberty  which  they  adored  as  the  terrible  sword  of 
Reason.  No:  it  was  not  for  them,  as  he  had  thought,  mere 
sounding  rhetoric  and  vague  ideology.  Among  u  people  for 
whom  the  demands  of  reason  transcend  all  others  the  fight  for 


THE  HOUSE  333 

reason  dominated  every  other.  What  did  it  matter  whether 
the  fight  appeared  absurd  to  nations  who  called  themselves  prac- 
tical? To  eyes  that  see  deeply  it  is  no  less  vain  to  fight  for 
empire,  or  money,  or  the  conquest  of  the  world:  in  a  million 
years  there  will  be  nothing  left  of  any  of  these  things.  But 
if  it  is  the  fierceness  of  the  fight  that  gives  its  worth  to  life, 
and  uplifts  all  the  living  forces  to  the  point  of  sacrifice  to  a 
superior  Being,  then  there  are  few  struggles  that  do  more 
honor  life  than  the  eternal  battle  waged  in  France  for  or  against 
reason.  And  for  those  who  have  tasted  the  bitter  savor  of  it 
the  much-vaunted  apathetic  tolerance  of  the  Anglo-Saxons  is 
dull  and  unmanly.  The  Anglo-Saxons  paid  for  it  by  finding 
elsewhere  an  outlet  for  their  energy.  Their  energy  is  not  in 
their  tolerance,  which  is  only  great  when,  between  factions,  it 
becomes  heroism.  In  Europe  of  to-day  it  is  most  often  indiffer- 
ence, want  of  faith,  want  of  vitality.  The  English,  adapting  a 
saying  of  Voltaire,  are  fain  to  boast  that  "  diversity  of  belief 
has  produced  more  tolerance  in  England"  than  the  ^Revolution 
has  done  in  France. — The  reason  is  that  there  is  more  faith 
in  the  France  of  the  Kevolution  than  in  all  the  creeds  of 
England. 

From  the  circle  of  brass  of  militant  idealism  and  the  battles 
of  Season, — like  Virgil  leading  Dante,  Olivier  led  Christophe  by 
the  hand  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain  where,  silent  and 
serene,  dwelt  the  small  band  of  the  elect  of  France  who  were 
really  free. 

Nowhere  in  the  world  are  there  men  more  free.  They  have 
the  serenity  of  a  bird  soaring  in  the  still  air.  On  such  a  height 
the  air  was  so  pure  and  rarefied  that  Christophe  could  hardly 
breathe.  There  he  met  artists  who  claimed  the  absolute  and 
limitless  liberty  of  dreams, — men  of  unbridled  subjectivity,  like 
Flaubert,  despising  "the  poor  beasts  who  believe  in  the  reality 
of  things  " : — thinkers,  who,  with  supple  and  many-sided  minds, 
emulating  the  endless  flow  of  moving  things,  went  on  "cease- 
lessly trickling  and  flowing,"  staying  nowhere,  nowhere  coming 


334  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

in  contact  with  stubborn  earth  or  rock,  and  "  depicted  not  the 
essence  of  life,  but  the  passage,"  as  Montaigne  said,  "the 
eternal  passage,  from  day  to  day,  from  minute  to  minute  " ; — 
men  of  science  who  knew  the  emptiness  and  void  of  the  uni- 
verse, wherein  man  has  builded  his  idea,  his  God,  his  art,  his 
science,  and  went  on  creating  the  world  and  its  laws,  that  vivid 
day's  dream.  They  did  not  demand  of  science  either  rest,  or 
happiness,  or  even  truth : — for  they  doubted  whether  it  were  at- 
tainable: they  loved  it  for  itself,  because  it  was  beautiful,  be- 
cause it  alone  was  beautiful,  and  it  alone  was  real.  On  the  top- 
most pinnacles  of  thought  these  men  of  science,  passionately 
Pyrrhonistic,  indifferent  to  all  suffering,  all  deceit,  almost  in- 
different to  reality,  listened,  with  closed  eyes,  to  the  silent  music 
of  souls,  the  delicate  and  grand  harmony  of  numbers  and 
forms.  These  great  mathematicians,  these  free  philosophers, — 
the  most  rigorous  and  positive  minds  in  the  world, — had  reached 
the  uttermost  limit  of  mystic  ecstasy :  they  created  a  void  about 
themselves,  they  hung  over  the  abyss,  they  were  drunk  with  its 
dizzy  depths:  into  the  boundless  night  with  joy  sublime  they 
flashed  the  lightnings  of  thought. 

Christophe  leaned  forward  and  tried  to  look  over  as  they 
did :  and  his  head  swam.  He  who  thought  himself  free  because 
he  had  broken  away  from  all  laws  save  those  of  his  own 
conscience,  now  became  fearfully  conscious  of  how  little  he  was 
free  compared  with  these  Frenchmen  who  were  emancipated 
from  every  absolute  law  of  mind,  from  every  categorical  im- 
perative, from  every  reason  for  living.  Why,  then,  did  they 
live? 

"  For  the  joy  of  being  free,"  replied  Olivier. 

But  Christophe,  who  was  unsteadied  by  such  liberty,  thought 
regretfully  of  the  mighty  spirit  of  discipline  and  German 
authoritarianism :  and  he  said : 

"  Your  joy  is  a  snare,  the  dream  of  an  opium-smoker.  You 
make  yourselves  drunk  with  liberty,  and  forget  life.  Absolute 
liberty  means  madness  to  the  mind,  anarchy  to  the  State  .  .  . 
Liberty !  What  man  is  free  in  this  world  ?  What  man  in  your 


THE  HOUSE  335 

Republic  is  free? — Only  the  knaves.  You,  the  best  of  the  na- 
tion, are  stifled.  You  can  do  nothing  but  dream.  Soon  you 
will  not  be  able  even  to  dream." 

"  No  matter ! "  said  Olivier.  "  My  poor  dear  Christophe, 
you  cannot  know  the  delight  of  being  free.  It  is  worth  while 
paying  for  it  with  so  much  danger,  and  suffering,  and  even 
death.  To  be  free,  to  feel  that  every  mind  about  you — yes, 
even  the  knave's — is  free,  is  a  delicious  pleasure  which  it  is  im- 
possible to  express:  it  is  as  though  your  soul  were  soaring 
through  the  infinite  air.  It  could  not  live  otherwise.  What 
should  I  do  with  the  security  you  offer  me,  and  your  order 
and  your  impeccable  discipline,  locked  up  in  the  four  walls  of 
your  Imperial  barracks?  I  should  die  of  suffocation.  Air! 
give  me  air,  more  and  more  of  it !  Liberty,  more  and  more  of 
that!" 

"There  must  be  law  in  the  world,"  replied  Christophe. 
"  Sooner  or  later  the  master  cometh." 

But  Olivier  laughed  and  reminded  Christophe  of  the  saying 
of  old  Pierre  de  1'Estoile: 

It  is  as  little  in  the  power  of  all  the 

dominions  of  the  earth  to  curb  the  French 

liberty  of  speech,  as 

to  bury  the  sun  in  the  earth 

or  to  shut  it  up 

inside  a 

hole. 

Gradually  Christophe  grew  accustomed  to  the  air  of  bound- 
less liberty.  From  the  lofty  heights  of  French  thought,  where 
those  minds  dream  that  are  all  light,  he  looked  down  upon  the 
slopes  of  the  mountain  at  his  feet,  where  the  heroic  elect, 
fighting  for  a  living  faith,  whatever  faith  it  be,  struggle 
eternally  to  reach  the  summit : — those  who  wage  the  holy  war 
against  ignorance,  disease,  and  poverty:  the  fever  of  invention, 
the  mental  delirium  of  the  modern  Prometheus  and  Icarus  con- 
quering the  light  and  marking  out  roads  in  the  air:  the 


336  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

Titanic  struggle  between  Science  and  Nature,  being  tamed; — 
lower  down,  the  little  silent  band,  the  men  and  women  of  good 
faith,  those  brave  and  humble  hearts,  who,  after  a  thousand 
efforts,  have  climbed  half-way,  and  can  climb  no  farther,  being 
held  bound  in  a  dull  and  difficult  existence,  while  in  secret 
they  burn  away  in  obscure  devotion: — lower  still,  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain,  in  a  narrow  gorge  between  rocky  crags,  the 
endless  battle,  the  fanatics  of  abstract  ideas  and  blind  instincts, 
fiercely  wrestling,  with  never  a  suspicion  that  there  may  be 
something  beyond,  above  the  wall  of  rocks  which  hems  them  in : 
— still  lower,  swamps  and  brutish  beasts  wallowing  in  the  mire. 
— And  everywhere,  scattered  about  the  sides  of  the  mountain, 
the  fresh  flowers  of  art,  the  scented  strawberry-plants  of  music, 
the  song  of  the  streams  and  the  poet  birds. 
.  And  Christophe  asked  Olivier: 

"  Where  are  your  people  ?  I  see  only  the  elect,  all  sorts,  good 
and  bad/' 

Olivier  replied: 

"  The  people  ?  They  are  tending  their  gardens.  They  never 
bother  about  us.  Every  group  and  faction  among  the  elect 
strives  to  engage  their  attention.  They  pay  no  heed  to  any 
one.  There  was  a  time  when  it  amused  them  to  listen  to  the 
humbug  of  the  political  mountebanks.  But  now  they  never 
worry  about  it.  There  are  several  millions  who  do  not  even 
make  use  of  their  rights  as  electors.  The  parties  may  break 
each  other's  heads  as  much  as  they  like,  and  the  people  don't 
care  one  way  or  another  so  long  as  they  don't  trample  the  crops 
in  their  wrangling :  if  that  happens  then  they  lose  their  tempers, 
and  smash  the  parties  indiscriminately.  They  do  not  act :  they 
react  in  one  way  or  another  against  all  the  exaggerations  which 
disturb  their  work  and  their  rest.  Kings,  Emperors,  republics, 
priests,  Freemasons,  Socialists,  whatever  their  leaders  may  be, 
all  that  they  ask  of  them  is  to  be  protected  against  the  great 
common  dangers :  war,  riots,  epidemics, — and,  for  the  rest,  to  be 
allowed  to  go  on  tending  their  gardens.  When  all  is  said  and 
done  they  think : 


THE  HOUSE  337 

" ( Why  won't  these  people  leave  us  in  peace  ? ' 

"But  the  politicians  are  so  stupid  that  they  worry  the  peo- 
ple, and  won't  leave  off  until  they  are  pitched  out  with  a  fork, — 
as  will  happen  some  day  to  our  members  of  Parliament,  There 
was  a  time  when  the  people  were  embarked  upon  great  enter- 
prises. Perhaps  that  will  happen  again,  although  they  sowed 
their  wild  oats  long  ago:  in  any  case  their  embarkations  are 
never  for  long:  very  soon  they  return  to  their  age-old  com- 
panion: the  earth.  It  is  the  soil  which  binds  the  French  to 
France,  much  more  than  the  French.  There  are  so  many  dif- 
ferent races  who  for  centuries  have  been  tilling  that  brave  soil 
side  by  side,  that  it  is  the  soil  which  unites  them,  the  soil  which 
is  their  love.  Through  good  times  and  bad  they  cultivate  it 
unceasingly:  and  it  is  all  good  to  them,  even  the  smallest  scrap 
of  ground." 

Christophe  looked  down.  As  far  as  he  could  see,  along  the 
road,  around  the  swamps,  on  the  slopes  of  rocky  hills,  over  the 
battlefields  and  ruins  of  action,  over  the  mountains  and  plains 
of  France,  all  was  cultivated  and  richly  bearing:  it  was  the 
great  garden  of  European  civilization.  Its  incomparable  charm 
lay  no  less  in  the  good  fruitful  soil  than  in  the  blind  labors 
of  an  indefatigable  people,  who  for  centuries  have  never  ceased 
to  till  and  sow  and  make  the  land  ever  more  beautiful. 

A  strange  people!  They  are  always  called  inconstant:  but 
nothing  in  them  changes.  Olivier,  looking  backward,  saw  in 
Gothic  statuary  all  the  types  of  the  provinces  of  to-day:  and 
so  in  the  drawings  of  a  Clouet  and  a  Dumoustier,  the  weary 
ironical  faces  of  worldly  men  and  intellectuals :  or  in  the^  work 
of  a  Lenain  the  clear  eyes  of  the  laborers  and  peasants  of  Ile-de- 
France  or  Picardy.  And  the  thoughts  of  the  men  of  old  days 
lived  in  the  minds  of  the  present  day.  The  mind  of  Pascal 
was  alive,  not  only  in  the  elect  of  reason  and  religion,  but  in 
the  brains  of  obscure  citizens  or  revolutionary  Syndicalists.  The 
art  of  Corneille  and  Racine  was  living  for  the  people  even  more 
than  for  the  elect,  for  they  were  less  attainted  by  foreign  in- 
fluences: a  humble  clerk  in  Paris  would  feel  more  sympathy 


338  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

with  a  tragedy  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV  than  with  a  novel  of 
Tolstoi  or  a  drama  of  Ibsen.  The  chants  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
the  old  French  Tristan,  would  be  more  akin  to  the  modern 
French  than  the  Tristan  of  Wagner.  The  flowers  of  thought, 
which  since  the  twelfth  century  have  never  ceased  to  blossom  in 
French  soil,  however  different  they  may  be,  were  yet  kin  one  to 
another,  though  utterly  different  from  all  the  flowers  about 
them. 

Christophe  knew  too  little  of  France  to  be  able  to  grasp 
how  these  characteristics  had  endured.  What  struck  him  most 
of  all  in  all  the  wide  expanse  of  country  was  the  extremely 
small  divisions  of  the  earth.  As  Olivier  said,  every  man  had  his 
garden :  and  each  garden,  each  plot  of  land,  was  separated  from 
the  rest  by  walls,  and  quickset  hedges,  and  inclosures  of  all 
sorts.  At  most  there  were  only  a  few  woods  and  fields  in  com- 
mon, and  sometimes  the  dwellers  on  one  side  of  a  river  were 
forced  to  live  nearer  to  each  other  than  to  the  dwellers  on  the 
other.  Every  man  shut  himself  up  in  his  own  house:  and  it 
seemed  that  this  jealous  individualism,  instead  of  growing 
weaker  after  centuries  of  neighborhood,  was  stronger  than  ever. 
Christophe  thought: 

"  How  lonely  they  all  are !  " 

In  that  sense  nothing  could  have  been  more  characteristic 
than  the  house  in  which  Christophe  and  Olivier  lodged.  It 
was  a  world  in  miniature,  a  little  France,  honest  and  in- 
dustrious, without  any  bond  which  could  unite  its  divers  ele- 
ments. A  five-storied  house,  a  shaky  house,  leaning  over  to 
one  side,  with  creaking  floors  and  crumbling  ceilings.  The 
rain  came  through  into  the  rooms  under  the  roof  in  which 
Christophe  and  Olivier  lived:  they  had  had  to  have  the  work- 
men in  to  botch  up  the  roof  as  best  they  could:  Christophe. 
could  hear  them  working  and  talking  overhead.  There  was  one 
man  in  particular  who  amused  and  exasperated  him :  he  never 
stopped  talking  to  himself,  and  laughing,  and  singing,  and 
babbling  nonsense,  and  whistling  inane  tunes,  and  holding  long 


THE  HOUSE  339 

conversations  with  himself  all  the  time  he  was  working:  he 
was  incapable  of  doing  anything  without  proclaiming  exactly 
what  it  was : 

"I'm  going  to  put  in  another  nail.  Where's  my  hammer? 
I'm  putting  in  a  nail,  two  nails.  One  more  blow  with  the 
hammer !  There,  old  lady,  that's  it.  ... " 

When  Christophe  was  playing  he  would  stop  for  a  moment 
and  listen,  and  then  go  on  whistling  louder  than  ever:  during 
a  stirring  passage  he  would  beat  time  with  his  hammer  on  the 
roof.  At  last  Christophe  was  so  exasperated  that  he  climbed 
on  a  chair,  and  poked  his  head  through  the  skylight  of  the 
attic  to  rate  the  man.  But  when  he  saw  him  sitting  astride 
the  roof,  with  his  jolly  face  and  his  cheek  stuffed  out  with 
nails,  he  burst  out  laughing,  and  the  man  joined  in.  And  not 
until  they  had  done  laughing  did  he  remember  why  he  had 
come  to  the  window : 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  I  wanted  to  ask  you :  my  playing 
doesn't  interfere  with  your  work  ?  " 

The  man  said  it  did  not:  but  he  asked  Christophe  to  play 
something  faster,  because,  as  he  worked  in  time  to  the  music, 
slow  tunes  kept  him  back.  They  parted  very  good  friends.  In 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  had  exchanged  more  words  than  in 
six  months  Christophe  had  spoken  to  the  other  inhabitants  of 
the  house. 

There  were  two  flats  on  each  floor,  one  of  three  rooms,  the 
other  of  only  two.  There  were  no  servants'  rooms:  each 
household  did  its  own  housework,  except  for  the  tenants  of 
the  ground  floor  and  the  first  floor,  who  occupied  the  two  flats 
thrown  into  one. 

On  the  fifth  floor  Christophe  and  Olivier's  next-door  neigh- 
bor was  the  Abbe  Corneille,  a  priest  of  some  forty  years  old,  a 
learned  man,  an  independent  thinker,  broad-minded,  formerly 
a  professor  of  exegesis  in  a  great  seminary,  who  had  recently 
been  censured  by  Rome  for  his  modernist  tendency.  He  had 
accepted  the  censure  without  submitting  to  it,  in  silence:  he 
made  no  attempt  to  dispute  it  and  refused  every  opportunity 


340  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

offered  to  him  of  publishing  his  doctrine:  he  shrank  from  a 
noisy  publicity  and  would  rather  put  up  with  the  ruin  of  his 
ideas  than  figure  in  a  scandal.  Christophe  could  not  under- 
stand that  sort  of  revolt  in  resignation.  He  had  tried  to  talk 
to  the  priest,  who,  however,  was  coldly  polite  and  would  not 
speak  of  the  things  which  most  interested  him,  and  seemed  to 
prefer  as  a  matter  of  dignity  to  remain  buried  alive. 

On  the  floor  below  in  the  flat  corresponding  to  that  of  the 
two  friends  there  lived  a  family  of  the  name  of  Elie  Elsberger: 
an  engineer,  his  wife,  and  their  two  little  girls,  seven  and  ten 
years  old :  superior  and  sympathetic  people  who  kept  themselves 
very  much  to  themselves,  chiefly  from  a  sort  of  false  shame  of 
their  straitened  means.  The  young  woman  who  kept  her  house 
most  pluckily  was  humiliated  by  it:  she  would  have  put  up 
with  twice  the  amount  of  worry  and  exhaustion  if  she  could  have 
prevented  anybody  knowing  their  condition:  and  that  too  was 
a  feeling  which  Christophe  could  not  understand.  They  be- 
longed to  a  Protestant  family  and  came  from  the  East  of 
France.  Both  man  and  wife,  a  few  years  before,  had  been 
bowled  over  by  the  storm  of  the  Dreyfus  affair:  both  of  them 
had  taken  the  affair  passionately  to  heart,  and,  like  thousands 
of  French  people,  they  had  suffered  from  the  frenzy  brought  on 
by  the  turbulent  wind  of  that  exalted  fit  of  hysteria  which 
lasted  for  seven  years.  They  had  sacrificed  everything  to  it, 
rest,  position,  relations:  they  had  broken  off  many  dear  friend- 
ships through  it:  they  had  almost  ruined  their  health.  For 
months  at  a  time  they  did  not  sleep  nor  act,  but  went  on  bring- 
ing forward  the  same  arguments  over  and  over  again  with  the 
monotonous  insistence  of  the  insane:  they  screwed  each  other 
up  to  a  pitch  of  excitement:  in  spite  of  their  timidity  and  their 
dread  of  ridicule,  they  had  taken  part  in  demonstrations  and 
spoken  at  meetings,  from  which  they  returned  with  minds  be- 
wildered and  aching  hearts,  and  they  would  weep  together 
through  the  night.  In  the  struggle  they  had  expended  so  much 
enthusiasm  and  passion  that  when  at  last  victory  was  theirs 


THE  HOUSE  341 

they  had  not  enough  of  either  to  rejoice:  it  left  them  dry  of 
energy  and  broken  for  life.  Their  hopes  had  been  so  high,  their 
eagerness  for  sacrifice  had  been  so  pure,  that  triumph  when  it 
came  had  seemed  a  mockery  compared  with  what  they  had 
dreamed.  To  such  single-minded  creatures  for  whom  there 
could  exist  but  one  truth,  the  bargaining  of  politics,  the  com- 
promises of  their  heroes  had  been  a  bitter  disappointment.  They 
had  seen  their  comrades  in  arms,  men  whom  they  had  thought 
inspired  with  the  same  single  passion  for  justice, — once  the 
enemy  was  overcome,  swarming  about  the  loot,  catching  at 
power,  carrying  off  honors  and  positions,  and,  in  their  turn, 
trampling  justice  underfoot.  Only  a  mere  handful  of  men  held 
steadfast  to  their  faith,  and,  in  poverty  and  isolation,  rejected 
by  every  party,  rejecting  every  party,  they  remained  in  obscurity, 
cut  off  one  from  the  other,  a  prey  to  sorrow  and  neurasthenia, 
left  hopeless  and  disgusted  with  men  and  utterly  weary  of  life. 
The  engineer  and  his  wife  were  among  these  wretched  victims. 
They  made  no  noise  in  the  house:  they  were  morbidly  afraid 
of  disturbing  their  neighbors,  the  more  so  as  they  suffered  from 
their  neighbors'  noises,  and  they  were  too  proud  to  complain. 
Christophe  was  sorry  for  the  two  little  girls,  whose  outbursts  of 
merriment,  and  natural  need  of  shouting,  jumping  about  and 
laughing,  were  continually  being  suppressed.  He  adored  chil- 
dren, and  he  made  friendly  advances  to  his  little  neighbors  when 
he  met  them  on  the  stairs.  The  little  girls  were  shy  at  first,  but 
were  soon  on  good  terms  with  Christophe,  who  always  had  some 
funny  story  to  tell  them  or  sweetmeats  in  his  pockets :  they  told 
their  parents  about  him :  and,  though  at  first  they  had  been  in- 
clined to  look  askance  at  his  advances,  they  were  won  over  by 
the  frank  open  manners  of  their  noisy  neighbor,  whose  piano- 
playing  and  terrific  disturbance  overhead  had  often  made  them 
curse: — (for  Christophe  used  to  feel  stifled  in  his  room  and 
take  to  pacing  up  and  down  like  a  caged  bear). — They  did  not 
find  it  easy  to  talk  to  him.  Christophe's  rather  boorish  and 
abrupt  manners  sometimes  made  Elie  Elsberger  shudder.  But 
it  was  all  in  vain  for  the  engineer  to  try  to  keep  up  the  wall 


342  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

of  reserve,  behind  which  he  had  taken  shelter,  between  himself 
and  the  German :  it  was  impossible  to  resist  the  impetuous  good 
humor  of  the  man  whose  eyes  were  so  honest  and  affectionate 
and  so  free  from  any  ulterior  motive.  Every  now  and  then 
Christophe  managed  to  squeeze  a  little  confidence  out  of  his 
neighbor.  Elsberger  was  a  queer  man,  full  of  courage,  yet 
apathetic,  sorrowful,  and  yet  resigned.  He  had  energy  enough 
to  bear  a  life  of  difficulty  with  dignity,  but  not  enough  to  change 
it.  It  was  as  though  he  took  a  delight  in  justifying  his  own 
pessimism.  Just  at  that  time  he  had  been  offered  a  post  in 
Brazil  as  manager  of  an  undertaking:  but  he  had  refused  as 
he  was  afraid  of  the  climate  and  fearful  of  the  health  of  his 
wife  and  children. 

"  Well,  leave  them,"  said  Christophe.  "  Go  alone  and  make 
their  fortune." 

"  Leave  them !  "  cried  the  engineer.  "  It's  easy  to  see  that 
you  have  no  children." 

"  I  assure  you  that,  if  I  had,  I  should  be  of  the  same 
opinion." 

"  Never !  Never !  .  .  .  Leave  the  country !  .  .  .  No. 
I  would  rather  suffer  here." 

To  Christophe  it  seemed  an  odd  way  of  loving  one's  country 
and  one's  wife  and  children  to  sit  down  and  vegetate  with  them. 
Olivier  understood. 

"  Just  think,"  he  said,  "  of  the  risk  of  dying  out  there,  in  a 
strange  unknown  country,  far  away  from  those  you  love !  Any- 
thing is  better  than  the  horror  of  that.  Besides,  it  isn't  worth 
while  taking  so  much  trouble  for  the  few  remaining  years  of 
life!  .  .  ." 

"  As  though  one  had  always  to  be  thinking  of  death ! "  said 
Christophe  with  a  shrug.  "  And  even  if  that  does  happen,  isn't 
it  better  to  die  fighting  for  the  happiness  of  those  one  loves  than 
to  flicker  out  in  apathy  ?  " 

On  the  same  landing  in  the  smaller  flat  on  the  fourth  floor 
lived  a  journeyman  electrician  named  Aubert. — If  he  lived  en- 


THE  HOUSE  343 

tirely  apart  from  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  house  it  was  not 
altogether  his  fault.  He  had  risen  from  the  lower  class  and 
had  a  passionate  desire  not  to  sink  back  into  it.  He  was  small 
and  weakly-looking;  he  had  a  harsh  face,  and  his  forehead 
bulged  over  his  eyes,  which  were  keen  and  sharp  and  bored  into 
you  like  a  gimlet:  he  had  a  fair  mustache,  a  satirical  mouth,  a 
sibilant  way  of  speaking,  a  husky  voice,  a  scarf  round  his  neck, 
and  he  had  always  something  the  matter  with  his  throat,  in 
which  irritation  was  set  up  by  his  perpetual  habit  of  smoking: 
he  was  always  feverishly  active  and  had  the  consumptive  tem- 
perament. He  was  a  mixture  of  conceit,  irony,  and  bitterness, 
cloaking  a  mind  that  was  enthusiastic,  bombastic,  and  naive, 
while  it  was  always  being  taken  in  by  life.  He  was  the  bastard 
of  some  burgess  whom  he  had  never  known,  and  was  brought  up 
by  a  mother  whom  it  was  impossible  to  respect,  so  that  in  his 
childhood  he  had  seen  much  that  was  sad  and  degrading.  He 
had  plied  all  sorts  of  trades  and  had  traveled  much  in  France. 
He  had  an  admirable  desire  for  education,  and  had  taught  him- 
self with  frightful  toil  and  labor:  he  read  everything:  history, 
philosophy,  decadent  poets:  he  was  up-to-date  in  everything: 
theaters,  exhibitions,  concerts:  he  had  a  touching  veneration  for 
art,  literature,  and  middle-class  ideas:  they  fascinated  him.  He 
had  imbibed  the  vague  and  ardent  ideology  which  intoxicated  the 
middle-classes  in  the  first  days  of  the  Devolution.  He  had  a 
definite  belief  in  the  infallibility  of  reason,  in  boundless 
progress, — quo  non  ascendam? — in  the  near  advent  of  happi- 
ness on  earth,  in  the  omnipotence  of  science,  in  Divine  Hu- 
manity, and  in  France,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Humanity.  He 
had  an  enthusiastic  and  credulous  sort  of  anti-clericalism  which 
made  him  lump  together  religion — especially  Catholicism — and 
obscurantism,  and  see  in  priests  the  natural  foe  of  light.  So- 
cialism, individualism,  Chauvinism  jostled  each  other  in  his 
brain.  He  was  a  humanitarian  in  mind,  despotic  in  tempera- 
ment, and  an  anarchist  in  fact.  He  was  proud  and  knew  the 
gaps  in  his  education,  and,  in  conversation,  he  was  very  cautious : 
he  turned  to  account  everything  that  was  said  in  his  presence, 


344  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

but  he  would  never  ask  advice:  that  humiliated  him;  now, 
though  he  had  intelligence  and  cleverness,  these  things  could  not 
altogether  supply  the  defects  of  his  education.  He  had  taken  it 
into  his  head  to  write.  Like  so  many  men  in  France  who  have 
not  been  taught,  he  had  the  gift  of  style,  and  a  clear  vision: 
but  he  was  a  confused  thinker.  He  had  shown  a  few  pages  of 
his  productions  to  a  successful  journalist  in  whom  he  believed, 
and  the  man  made  fun  of  him.  He  was  profoundly  humiliated, 
and  from  that  time  on  never  told  a  soul  what  he  was  doing. 
But  he  went  on  writing:  it  fed  his  need  of  expansion  and  gave 
him  pride  and  delight.  In  his  heart  he  was  immensely  pleased 
with  his  eloquent  passages  and  philosophic  ideas,  which  were  not 
worth  a  brass  farthing.  And  he  set  no  store  by  his  observation 
of  real  life,  which  was  excellent.  It  was  his  crank  to  fancy 
himself  as  a  philosopher,  and  he  wished  to  write  sociological 
plays  and  novels  of  ideas.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  solving  all 
sorts  of  insoluble  questions,  and  at  every  turn  he  discovered 
America.  When  in  due  course  he  found  that  America  was 
already  discovered,  he  was  disappointed,  humiliated,  and  rather 
bitter:  he  was  never  far  from  scenting  injustice  and  intrigue. 
He  was  consumed  by  a  thirst  for  fame  and  a  burning  capacity 
for  devotion  which  suffered  from  finding  no  means  or  direction 
of  employment :  he  would  have  loved  to  be  a  great  man  of  letters, 
a  member  of  that  literary  elite,  who  in  his  eyes  were  adorned 
with  a  supernatural  prestige.  In  spite  of  his  longing  to  deceive 
himself  he  had  too  much  good  sense  and  was  too  ironical  not  to 
know  that  there  was  no  chance  of  its  coming  to  pass.  But  he 
would  at  least  have  liked  to  live  in  that  atmosphere  of  art  and 
middle-class  ideas  which  at  a  distance  seemed  to  him  so 
brilliant  and  pure  and  chastened  of  mediocrity.  This  innocent 
longing  had  the  unfortunate  result  of  making  the  society  of 
the  people  with  whom  his  condition  in  life  forced  him  to  live 
intolerable  to  him.  And  as  the  middle-class  society  which  he 
wished  to  enter  closed  its  doors  to  him,  the  result  was  that  he 
never  saw  anybody.  And  so  Christophe  had  no  difficulty  in 
making  his  acquaintance.  On  the  contrary  he  had  very  soon 


THE  HOUSE  345 

to  bolt  and  bar  against  him :  otherwise  Aubert  would  more  often 
have  been  in  Christophe's  rooms,  than  Christophe  in  his.  He 
was  only  too  happy  to  find  an  artist  to  whom  he  could  talk  about 
music,  plays,  etc.  But,  as  one  would  imagine,  Christophe  did 
not  find  them  so  interesting :  he  would  rather  have  discussed  the 
people  with  a  man  who  was  of  the  people.  But  that  was  just 
what  Aubert  would  not  and  could  not  discuss. 

In  proportion  as  he  went  lower  in  the  house  relations  be- 
tween Christophe  and  the  other  tenants  became  naturally  more 
distant.  Besides,  some  secret  magic,  some  Open  Sesame,  would 
have  been  necessary  for  him  to  reach  the  inhabitants  of  the 
third  floor. — In  the  one  flat  there  lived  two  ladies  who  were  un- 
der the  self-hypnotism  of  grief  for  a  loss  that  was  already  some 
years  old:  Madame  Germain,  a  woman  of  thirty-five  who  had 
lost  her  husband  and  daughter,  and  lived  in  seclusion  with  her 
aged  and  devout  mother-in-law. — On  the  other  side  of  the  land- 
ing there  dwelt  a  mysterious  character  of  uncertain  age,  any- 
thing between  fifty  and  sixty,  with  a  little  girl  of  ten.  He  waa 
bald,  with  a  handsome,  well-trimmed  beard,  a  soft  way  of  speak- 
ing, distinguished  manners,  and  aristocratic  hands.  He  was 
called  M.  Watelet.  He  was  said  to  be  an  anarchist,  a  revolu- 
tionary, a  foreigner,  from  what  country  was  not  known,  Eussia 
or  Belgium.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  a  Northern  French- 
man and  was  hardly  at  all  revolutionary:  but  he  was  living  on 
his  past  reputation.  He  had  been  mixed  up  with  the  Com- 
mune of  '71  and  condemned  to  death:  he  had  escaped,  how  he 
did  not  know:  and  for  ten  years  he  had  lived  for  a  short  time 
in  every  country  in  Europe.  He  had  seen  so  many  ill-deeds 
during  the  upheaval  in  Paris,  and  afterwards,  and  also  in  exile, 
and  also  since  his  return,  ill-deeds  done  by  his  former  comrades 
now  that  they  were  in  power,  and  also  by  men  in  every  rank  of 
the  revolutionary  parties,  that  he  had  broken  with  them,  peace- 
fully keeping  his  convictions  to  himself  useless  and  untarnished. 
He  read  much,  wrote  a  few  mildly  incendiary  books,  pulled — 
(so  it  was  said) — the  wires  of  anarchist  movements  in  distant 
places,  in  India  or  the  Far  East,  busied  himself  with  the  uni- 


346  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

versal  revolution,  and,  at  the  same  time,  with  researches  no 
less  universal  but  of  a  more  genial  aspect,  namely  with  a  uni- 
versal language,  a  new  method  of  popular  instruction  in  music. 
He  never  came  in  contact  with  anybody  in  the  house:  when  he 
met  any  of  its  inmates  he  did  no  more  than  bow  to  them  with 
exaggerated  politeness.  However,  he  condescended  to  tell  Chris- 
tophe  a  little  about  his  musical  method.  Christophe  was  not 
the  least  interested  in  it :  the  symbols  of  his  ideas  mattered  very 
little  to  him:  in  any  language  he  would  have  managed  some- 
how to  express  them.  But  Watelet  was  not  to  be  put  off,  and 
went  on  explaining  his  system  gently  but  firmly:  Christophe 
could  not  find  out  anything  about  the  rest  of  his  life.  And  so 
he  gave  up  stopping  when  he  met  him  on  the  stairs  and  only 
looked  at  the  little  girl  who  was  always  with  him:  she  was 
fair,  pale,  anemic:  she  had  blue  eyes,  rather  a  sharp  profile, 
a  thin  little  figure — she  was  always  very  neatly  dressed — and  she 
looked  sickly  and  her  face  was  not  very  expressive.  Like 
everybody  else  he  thought  she  was  Watelet's  daughter.  She 
was  an  orphan,  the  daughter  of  poor  parents,  whom  Watelet  had 
adopted  when  she  was  four  or  five,  after  the  death  of  her  father 
and  mother  in  an  epidemic.  He  had  an  almost  boundless  love 
for  the  poor,  especially  for  poor  children.  It  was  a  sort  of 
mystic  tenderness  with  him  as  with  Vincent  de  Paul.  He  dis- 
trusted official  charity,  and  knew  exactly  what  philanthropic  in- 
stitutions were  worth,  and  therefore  he  set  about  doing  charity 
alone :  he  did  it  by  stealth,  and  took  a  secret  joy  in  it.  He  had 
learned  medicine  so  as  to  be  of  some  use  in  the  world.  One 
day  when  he  went  to  the  house  of  a  working-man  in  the  district 
and  found  sickness  there,  he  turned  to  and  nursed  the  invalids : 
he  had  some  medical  knowledge  and  turned  it  to  account.  He 
could  not  bear  to  see  a  child  suffer:  it  broke  his  heart.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  what  a  joy  it  was  when  he  had  succeeded  in 
tearing  one  of  these  poor  little  creatures  from  the  clutches  of 
sickness,  and  the  first  pale  smile  appeared  on  the  little  pinched 
face!  Then  Watelet's  heart  would  melt.  Those  were  his  mo- 
ments of  Paradise.  They  made  him  forget  the  trouble  he  often 


THE  HOUSE  347 

had  with  his  proteges:  for  they  very  rarely  showed  him  much 
gratitude.  And  the  housekeeper  was  furious  at  seeing  so  many 
people  with  dirty  boots  going  up  her  stairs,  and  she  would  com- 
plain bitterly.  And  the  proprietor  would  watch  uneasily  these 
meetings  of  anarchists,  and  make  remarks.  Watelet  would  con- 
template leaving  his  flat:  but  that  hurt  him:  he  had  his  little 
whimsies :  he  was  gentle  and  obstinate,  and  he  put  up  with  the 
proprietor's  observations. 

Christophe  won  his  confidence  up  to  a  certain  point  by  the 
love  he  showed  for  children.  That  was  their  common  bond. 
Christophe  never  met  the  little  girl  without  a  catch  at  his 
heart:  for,  though  he  did  not  know  why,  by  one  of  those  mys- 
terious similarities  in  outline,  which  the  instinct  perceives 
immediately  and  subconsciously,  the  child  reminded  him  of  Sa- 
bine's  little  girl.  Sabine,  his  first  love,  now  so  far  away,  the 
silent  grace  of  whose  fleeting  shadow  had  never  faded  from 
his  heart.  And  so  he  took  an  interest  in  the  pale-faced  little 
girl  whom  he  never  saw  romping,  or  running,  whose  voice  he 
hardly  ever  heard,  who  had  no  little  friend  of  her  own  age, 
who  was  always  alone,  mum,  quietly  amusing  herself  with  life- 
less toys,  a  doll  or  a  block  of  wood,  while  her  lips  moved  as  she 
whispered  some  story  to  herself.  She  was  affectionate  and  a 
little  offhanded  in  manner:  there  was  a  foreign  and  uneasy 
quality  in  her,  but  her  adopted  father  never  saw  it :  he  loved  her 
too  much.  Alas!  Does  not  that  foreign  and  uneasy  quality 
exist  even  in  the  children  of  our  own  flesh  and  blood?  .  .  . — 
Christophe  tried  to  make  the  solitary  little  girl  friends  with  the 
engineer's  children.  But  with  both  Elsberger  and  Watelet  he 
met  with  a  polite  but  categorical  refusal.  These  people  seemed 
to  make  it  a  point  of  honor  to  bury  themselves  alive,  each  in  his 
own  mausoleum.  If  it  came  to  a  point  each  would  have  been 
ready  to  help  the  other :  but  each  was  afraid  of  it  being  thought 
that  he  himself  was  in  need  of  help:  and  as  they  were  both 
equally  proud  and  vain, — and  the  means  of  both  were  equally 
precarious, — there  was  no  hope  of  either  of  them  being  the  first 
to  hold  out  his  hand  to  the  other. 


348  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

The  larger  flat  on  the  second  floor  was  almost  always  empty. 
The  proprietor  of  the  house  reserved  it  for  his  own  use:  and 
he  was  never  there.  He  was  a  retired  merchant  who  had  closed 
down  his  business  as  soon  as  he  had  made  a  certain  fortune, 
the  figure  of  which  he  had  fixed  for  himself.  He  spent  the 
greater  part  of  the  year  in  some  hotel  on  the  Riviera,  and  the 
summer  at  some  watering-place  in  Normandy,  living  as  a  gentle- 
man with  private  means  who  enjoys  the  illusion  of  luxury 
cheaply  by  watching  the  luxury  of  others,  and,  like  them,  lead- 
ing a  useless  existence. 

The  smaller  flat  was  let  to  a  childless  couple :  M.  and  Madame 
Arnaud.  The  husband,  a  man  of  between  forty  and  forty-five, 
was  a  master  at  a  school.  He  was  so  overworked  with  lectures, 
and  correcting  exercises,  and  giving  classes,  that  he  had  never 
been  able  to  find  time  to  write  his  thesis:  and  at  last  he  had 
given  it  up  altogether.  The  wife  was  ten  years  younger,  pretty, 
and  very  shy.  They  were  both  intelligent,  well  read,  in  love 
with  each  other:  they  knew  nobody,  and  never  went  out.  The 
husband  had  no  time  for  it.  The  wife  had  too  much  time: 
but  she  was  a  brave  little  creature,  who  fought  down  her  fits  of 
depression  when  they  came  over  her,  and  hid  them,  by  occupying 
herself  as  best  she  could,  trying  to  learn,  taking  notes  for  her 
husband,  copying  out  her  husband's  notes,  mending  her  hus- 
band's clothes,  making  frocks  and  hats  for  herself.  She  would 
have  liked  to  go  to  the  theater  from  time  to  time:  but  Arnaud 
did  not  care  about  it :  he  was  too  tired  in  the  evening.  And  she 
resigned  herself  to  it. 

Their  great  joy  was  music.  They  both  adored  it.  He  could 
not  play,  and  she  dared  not  although  she  could :  when  she  played 
before  anybody,  even  before  her  husband,  it  was  like  a  child 
strumming.  However,  that  was  good  enough  for  them:  and 
Gluck,  Mozart,  Beethoven,  whom  they  stammered  out,  were  as 
friends  to  them :  they  knew  their  lives  in  detail,  and  their  suf- 
ferings filled  them  with  love  and  pity.  Books,  too,  beautiful, 
fine  books,  which  they  read  together,  gave  them  happiness.  But 


THE  HOUSE  349 

there  are  few  such  books  in  the  literature  of  to-day :  authors  do 
not  worry  about  those  people  who  can  bring  them  neither  repu- 
tation, nor  pleasure,  nor  money,  such  humble  readers  who 
are  never  seen  in  society,  and  do  not  write  in  any  journal, 
and  can  only  love  and  say  nothing.  The  silent  light  of  art, 
which  in  their  upright  and  religious  hearts  assumed  almost  a 
supernatural  character,  and  their  mutual  affection,  were  enough 
to  make  them  live  in  peace,  happy  enough,  though  a  little  sad — 
(there  is  no  gainsaying  that), — very  lonely,  a  little  bruised  in 
spirit.  They  were  both  much  superior  to  their  position  in  life. 
M.  Arnaud  was  full  of  ideas :  but  he  had  neither  the  time  nor 
enough  courage  left  to  write  them  down.  It  meant  such  a  lot  of 
trouble  to  get  articles  and  books  published:  it  was  not  worth 
it:  futile  vanity!  Anything  he  could  do  was  so  small  in  com- 
parison with  the  thinkers  he  loved !  He  had  too  true  a  love 
for  the  great  works  of  art  to  want  to  produce  art  himself:  it 
would  have  seemed  to  him  pretentious,  impertinent,  and 
ridiculous.  It  seemed  to  be  his  lot  to  spread  their  influence. 
He  gave  his  pupils  the  benefit  of  his  ideas:  they  would  turn 
them  into  books  later  on, — without  mentioning  his  name  of 
course. — Nobody  spent  more  money  than  he  in  subscribing 
to  various  publications.  The  poor  are  always  the  most  gen- 
erous :  they  do  buy  their  books :  the  rich  would  take  it  as  a  slur 
upon  themselves  if  they  did  not  somehow  manage  to  get  them 
for  nothing.  Arnaud  ruined  himself  in  buying  books:  it  was 
his  weakness — his  vice.  He  was  ashamed  of  it,  and  concealed  it 
from  his  wife.  But  she  did  not  blame  him  for  it:  she  would 
have  spent  just  as  much. — And  with  it  all  they  were  always 
making  fine  plans  for  saving,  with  a  view  to  going  to  Italy 
some  day — though,  as  they  knew  quite  well,  they  never  would 
go:  and  they  were  the  first  to  laugh  at  their  incapacity  for 
keeping  money.  Arnaud  would  console  himself.  His  dear  wife 
was  enough  for  him,  and  his  life  of  work  and  inward  joys. 
Was  it  not  also  enough  for  her? — She  said  it  was.  She  dared 
not  say  how  dear  it  would  have  been  to  her  if  her  husband  could 
have  some  reputation,  which  would  in  some  sort  be  reflected 


350  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

upon  herself,  and  brighten  her  life,  and  give  her  ease  and 
comfort:  inward  joys  are  beautiful:  but  a  little  ray  of  light 
from  without  shining  in  from  time  to  time  is  sweet,  and  does  so 
much  good!  .  .  .  But  she  never  said  anything,  because  she 
was  timid:  and  besides,  she  knew  that  even  if  he  wished  to 
make  a  reputation  it  was  by  no  means  certain  that  he  would  suc- 
ceed: it  was  too  late!  .  .  .  Their  greatest  sorrow  was  that 
they  had  no  children.  Each  hid  that  sorrow  from  the  other: 
and  they  were  only  the  more  tender  with  each  other:  it  was  as 
though  the  poor  creatures  were  striving  to  win  one  another's 
forgiveness.  Madame  Arnaud  was  kind  and  affectionate:  she 
would  gladly  have  been  friends  with  Madame  Elsberger.  But 
she  dared  not:  she  was  never  approached.  As  for  Christophe, 
husband  and  wife  would  have  asked  nothing  better  than  to 
know  him :  they  were  fascinated  by  the  music  that  they  could 
hear  faintly  when  he  was  playing.  But  nothing  in  the  world 
could  have  induced  them  to  make  the  first  move:  they  would 
have  thought  it  indiscreet. 

The  whole  of  the  first  floor  was  occupied  by  M.  and  Madame 
Felix  Weil.  They  were  rich  Jews,  and  had  no  children,  and 
they  spent  six  months  of  the  year  in  the  country  near  Paris. 
Although  they  had  lived  in  the  house  for  twenty  years — (they 
stayed  there  as  a  matter  of  habit,  although  they  could  easily 
have  found  a  flat  more  in  keeping  with  their  fortune) — they 
were  always  like  passing  strangers.  They  had  never  spoken 
a  word  to  any  of  their  neighbors,  and  no  one  knew  any  more 
about  them  than  on  the  day  of  their  arrival.  But  that  was  no 
reason  why  the  other  tenants  should  not  pass  judgment  on 
them :  on  the  contrary.  They  were  not  liked.  And  no  doubt 
they  did  nothing  to  win  popularity.  And  yet  they  were  worthy 
of  more  acquaintance:  they  were  both  excellent  people  and  re- 
markably intelligent.  The  husband,  a  man  of  sixty,  was  an  As- 
syriologist,  well  known  through  his  famous  excavations  in  Cen- 
tral Asia:  like  most  of  his  race  he  was  open-minded  and  curi- 
ous, and  did  not  confine  himself  to  his  special  studies:  he  was 


THE  HOUSE  351 

interested  in  an  infinite  number  of  things:  the  arts,  social 
questions,  every  manifestation  of  contemporary  thought.  But 
these  were  not  enough  to  occupy  his  mind :  for  they  all  amused 
him,  and  none  of  them  roused  passionate  interest.  He  was 
very  intelligent,  too  intelligent,  too  much  emancipated  from 
all  ties,  always  ready  to  destroy  with  one  hand  what  he  had 
constructed  with  the  other:  for  he  was  constructive,  always 
producing  books  and  theories:  he  was  a  great  worker:  as  a 
matter  of  habit  and  spiritual  health  he  was  always  patiently 
plowing  his  deep  furrow  in  the  field  of  knowledge,  without  hav- 
ing any  belief  in  the  utility  of  what  he  was  doing.  He  had 
always  had  the  misfortune  to  be  rich,  so  that  he  had  never  had 
the  interest  of  the  struggle  for  life,  and,  since  his  explorations 
in  the  East,  of  which  he  had  grown  tired  after  a  few  years, 
he  had  not  accepted  any  official  position.  Outside  his  own  per- 
sonal work,  however,  he  busied  himself  with  clairvoyance,  con- 
temporary problems,  social  reforms  of  a  practical  and  pressing 
nature,  the  reorganization  of  public  education  in  France:  he 
flung  out  ideas  and  created  lines  of  thought :  he  would  set  great 
intellectual  machines  working,  and  would  immediately  grow  dis- 
gusted with  them.  More  than  once  he  had  scandalized  people, 
who  had  been  converted  to  a  cause  by  his  arguments,  by  pro- 
ducing the  most  incisive  and  discouraging  criticisms  of  the 
cause  itself.  He  did  not  do  it  deliberately:  it  was  a  natural 
necessity  for  him :  he  was  very  nervous  and  ironical  in  temper, 
and  found  it  hard  to  bear  with  the  foibles  of  things  and  people 
which  he  saw  with  the  most  disconcerting  clarity.  And,  as 
there  is  no  good  cause,  nor  any  good  man,  who,  seen  at  a  certain 
angle  or  with  a  certain  distortion,  does  not  present  a  ridiculous 
aspect,  there  was  nothing  that,  with  his  ironic  disposition,  he 
could  go  on  respecting  for  long.  All  this  was  not  calculated  to 
make  him  friends.  And  yet  he  was  always  well-disposed 
towards  people,  and  inclined  to  do  good:  he  did  much  good: 
but  no  one  was  ever  grateful  to  him :  even  those  whom  he  had 
helped  could  not  in  their  hearts  forgive  him,  because  they 
had  seen  that  they  were  ridiculous  in  his  eyes.  It  was  necessary 


352  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

for  him  not  to  see  too  much  of  men  if  he  were  to  love  them. 
Not  that  he  was  a  misanthrope.  He  was  not  sure  enough  of 
himself  to  be  that.  Face  to  face  with  the  world  at  which  he 
mocked,  he  was  timid  and  bashful :  at  heart  he  was  not  at  all  sure 
that  the  world  was  not  right  and  himself  wrong :  he  endeavored 
not  to  appear  too  different  from  other  people,  and  strove  to  base 
his  manners  and  apparent  opinions  on  theirs.  But  he  strove  in 
vain:  he  could  not  help  judging  them:  he  was  keenly  sensible 
of  any  sort  of  exaggeration  and  anything  that  was  not  simple : 
and  he  could  never  conceal  his  irritation.  He  was  especially 
sensible  of  the  foibles  of  the  Jews,  because  he  knew  them  best : 
and  as,  in  spite  of  his  intellectual  freedom,  which  did  not  ad- 
mit of  barriers  between  races,  he  was  often  brought  up  sharp 
against  those  barriers  which  men  of  other  races  raised  against 
him, — as,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  was  out  of  his  element  among 
Christian  ideas,  he  retired  with  dignity  into  his  ironic  labors 
and  the  profound  affection  he  had  for  his  wife. 

Worst  of  all,  his  wife  was  not  secure  against  his  irony.  She 
was  a  kindly,  busy  woman,  anxious  to  be  useful,  and  always 
taken  up  with  various  charitable  works.  Her  nature  was  much 
less  complex  than  that  of  her  husband,  and  she  was  cramped 
by  her  moral  benevolence  and  the  rather  rigidly  intellectual, 
though  lofty,  idea  of  duty  that  she  had  begotten.  Her  whole 
life,  which  was  sad  enough,  without  children,  with  no  great  joy 
nor  great  love,  was  based  on  this  moral  belief  of  hers,  which 
was  more  than  anything  else  the  will  to  believe.  Her  hus- 
band's irony  had,  of  course,  seized  on  the  element  of  voluntary 
self-deception  in  her  faith,  and — (it  was  too  strong  for  him)  — 
he  had  made  much  fun  at  her  expense.  He  was  a  mass  of  con- 
tradictions. He  had  a  feeling  for  duty  no  less  lofty  than  his 
wife's,  and,  at  the  same  time,  a  merciless  desire  to  analyze,  to 
criticize,  and  to  avoid  deception,  which  made  him  dismember 
and  take  to  pieces  his  moral  imperative.  He  could  not  see 
that  he  was  digging  away  the  ground  from  under  his  wife's 
feet:  he  used  cruelly  to  discourage  her.  When  he  realized  that 
he  had  done  so,  he  suffered  even  more  than  she :  but  the  harm 


THE  HOUSE  353 

was  done.  It  did  not  keep  them  from  loving  each  other  faith- 
fully, and  working  and  doing  good.  But  the  cold  dignity  of  the 
wife  was  not  more  kindly  judged  than  the  irony  of  the  hus- 
band :  and  as  they  were  too  proud  to  publish  abroad  the  good 
they  did,  or  their  desire  to  do  good,  their  reserve  was  regarded  as 
indifference,  and  their  isolation  as  selfishness.  And  the  more 
conscious  they  became  of  the  opinion  that  was  held  of  them,  the 
more  careful  were  they  to  do  nothing  to  dispute  it.  Reacting 
against  the  coarse  indiscretion  of  so  many  of  their  race  they 
were  the  victims  of  an  excessive  reserve  which  covered  a  vast 
deal  of  pride. 

As  for  the  ground  floor,  which  was  a  few  steps  higher  than 
the  little  garden,  it  was  occupied  by  Commandant  Chabran,  a 
retired  officer  of  the  Colonial  Artillery:  he  was  still  young,  a 
man  of  great  vigor,  who  had  fought  brilliantly  in  the  Soudan 
and  Madagascar:  then  suddenly,  he  had  thrown  the  whole 
thing  up,  and  buried  himself  there :  he  did  not  even  want  to 
hear  the  army  mentioned,  and  spent  his  time  in  digging  his 
flower-beds,  and  practising  the  flute  without  making  any 
progress,  and  growling  about  politics,  and  scolding  his  daughter, 
whom  he  adored:  she  was  a  young  woman  of  thirty,  not  very 
pretty,  but  quite  charming,  who  devoted  herself  to  him,  and 
had  not  married  so  as  not  to  leave  him.  Christophe  used  often 
to  see  them  leaning  out  of  the  window :  and,  naturally,  he  paid 
more  attention  to  the  daughter  than  the  father.  She  used  to 
spend  part  of  the  afternoon  in  the  garden,  sewing,  dreaming, 
digging,  always  in  high  good  humor  with  her  grumbling  old 
father.  Christophe  could  hear  her  soft  clear  voice  laughingly 
replying  to  the  growling  tones  of  the  Commandant,  whose  foot- 
steps ground  and  scrunched  on  the  gravel-paths:  then  he  would 
go  in,  and  she  would  stay  sitting  on  a  seat  in  the  garden,  and 
sew  for  hours  together,  never  stirring,  never  speaking,  smiling 
vaguely,  while  inside  the  house  the  bored  old  soldier  played 
flourishes  on  his  shrill  flute,  or,  by  way  of  a  change,  made  a 
broken-winded  old  harmonium  squeal  and  groan,  much  to  Chris- 


354  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

tophe's  amusement — or  exasperation — (which,  depended  on  the 
day  and  his  mood). 

All  these  people  went  on  living  side  by  side  in  that  house 
with  its  walled-in  garden  sheltered  from  all  the  buffets  of  the 
world,  hermetically  sealed  even  against  each  other.  Only  Chris- 
tophe, with  his  need  of  expansion  and  his  great  fullness  of  life, 
unknown  to  them,  wrapped  them  about  with  his  vast  sympathy, 
blind,  yet  all-seeing.  He  could  not  understand  them.  He  had 
no  means  of  understanding  them.  He  lacked  Olivier's  psy- 
chological insight  and  quickness.  But  he  loved  them.  In- 
stinctively he  put  himself  in  their  place.  Slowly,  mysteriously, 
there  crept  through  him  a  dim  consciousness  of  these  lives  so 
near  him  and  yet  so  far  removed,  the  stupefying  sorrow  of  the 
mourning  woman,  the  stoic  silence  of  all  their  proud  thoughts, 
the  priest,  the  Jew,  the  engineer,  the  revolutionary:  the  pale 
and  gentle  flame  of  tenderness  and  faith  which  burned  in 
silence  in  the  hearts  of  the  two  Arnauds:  the  naive  aspirations 
towards  the  light  of  the  man  of  the  people:  the  suppressed  re- 
volt and  fertile  activity  which  were  stifled  in  the  bosom  of  the 
old  soldier:  and  the  calm  resignation  of  the  girl  dreaming  in 
the  shade  of  the  lilac.  But  only  Christophe  could  perceive  and 
hear  the  silent  music  of  their  souls:  they  heard  it  not:  they 
were  all  absorbed  in  their  sorrow  and  their  dreams. 

They  all  worked  hard,  the  skeptical  old  scientist,  the  pessi- 
mistic engineer,  the  priest,  the  anarchist,  and  all  these  proud 
or  dispirited  creatures.  And  on  the  roof  the  mason  sang. 

In  the  district  round  the  house  among  the  best  of  the  people 
Christophe  found  the  same  moral  solitude — even  when  the 
people  were  banded  together. 

Olivier  had  brought  him  in  touch  with  a  little  review  for 
which  he  wrote.  It  was  called  Esope,  and  had  taken  for  its 
motto  this  quotation  from  Montaigne: 

"  2Esop  was  put  up  for  sale  with  two  other  slaves.  The  pur- 
chaser inquired  of  the  first  what  he  could  do:  and  he,  to  put 


THE  HOUSE  355 

a  price  upon  himself,  described  all  sorts  of  marvels;  the  sec- 
ond said  as  much  for  himself,,  or  more.  When  it  came  to  JEsop's 
turn,  and  he  was  asked  what  he  could  do: — Nothing,  he  said,  for 
these  two  have  iaken  everything:  they  can  do  everything." 

Their  attitude  was  that  of  pure  reaction  against  "  the  im- 
pudence," as  Montaigne  says,  "  of  those  who  profess  knowledge 
and  their  overweening  presumption !  "  The  self-styled  skeptics 
of  the  Esope  review  were  at  heart  men  of  the  firmest  faith. 
But  their  mask  of  irony  and  haughty  ignorance,  naturally 
enough,  had  small  attraction  for  the  public :  rather  it  repelled. 
The  people  are  only  with  a  writer  when  he  brings  them  words 
of  simple,  clear,  vigorous,  and  assured  life.  They  prefer  a 
sturdy  lie  to  an  anemic  truth.  Skepticism  is  only  to  their  liking 
when  it  is  the  covering  of  lusty  naturalism  or  Christian  idolatry. 
The  scornful  Pyrrhonism  in  which  the  Esope  clothed  itself  could 
only  be  acceptable  to  a  few  minds — " aeme  sdegnose," — who 
knew  the  solid  worth  beneath  it.  It  was  force  absolutely  lost 
upon  action  and  life. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  The  more  democratic  France  be- 
came, the  more  aristocratic  did  her  ideas,  her  art,  her  science 
seem  to  grow.  Science  securely  lodged  behind  its  special  lan- 
guages, in  the  depths  of  its  sanctuary,  wrapped  about  with  a 
triple  veil,  which  only  the  initiate  had  the  power  to  draw,  was 
less  accessible  than  at  the  time  of  Buffon  and  the  Encyclo- 
pedists. Art, — that  art  at  least  which  had  some  respect  for 
itself  and  the  worship  of  beauty, — was  no  less  hermetically 
sealed:  it  despised  the  people.  Even  among  writers  who  cared 
less  for  beauty  than  for  action,  among  those  who  gave  moral 
ideas  precedence  over  esthetic  ideas,  there  was  often  a  strange 
dominance  of  the  aristocratic  spirit.  They  seemed  to  be  more 
intent  upon  preserving  the  purity  of  their  inward  flame  than 
to  communicate  its  warmth  to  others.  It  was  as  though  they 
desired  not  to  make  their  ideas  prevail  but  only  to  affirm 
them. 

And  yet  among  these  writers  there  were  some  who  applied 
themselves  to  popular  art.  Among  the  most  sincere  some  hurled 


356  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

into  their  writings  destructive  anarchical  ideas,  truths  of  the 
distant  future,  which  might  be  beneficent  in  a  century  or  so,  but, 
for  the  time  being,  corroded  and  scorched  the  soul :  others  wrote 
bitter  or  ironical  plays,  robbed  of  all  illusion,  sad  to  the  last  de- 
gree. Christophe  was  left  in  a  state  of  collapse,  ham-strung, 
for  a  day  or  two  after  he  read  them. 

"  And  you  give  that  sort  of  thing  to  the  people  ?  "  he  would 
ask,  feeling  sorry  for  the  poor  audiences  who  had  come  to  forget 
their  troubles  for  a  few  hours,  only  to  be  presented  with  these 
lugubrious  entertainments.  "  It's  enough  to  make  them  all  go 
and  drown  themselves !  " 

"  You  may  be  quite  easy  on  that  score,"  said  Olivier,  laughing. 
"  The  people  don't  go." 

"  And  a  jolly  good  thing  too !  You're  mad.  Are  you  trying 
to  rob  them  of  every  scrap  of  courage  to  live  ?  " 

"Why?  Isn't  it  right  to  teach  them  to  see  the  sadness  of 
things,  as  we  do,  and  yet  to  go  on  and  do  their  duty  without 
flinching  ?  " 

"  Without  flinching  ?  I  doubt  that.  But  it's  very  certain 
that  they'll  do  it  without  pleasure.  And  you  don't  go  very  far 
when  you've  destroyed  a  man's  pleasure  in  living." 

"  What  else  can  one  do  ?  One  has  no  right  to  falsify  the 
truth." 

"  Nor  have  you  any  right  to  tell  the  whole  truth  to  every- 
body." 

"  You  say  that  ?  You  who  are  always  shouting  the  truth 
aloud,  you  who  pretend  to  love  truth  more  than  anything  in 
the  world ! " 

"  Yes :  truth  for  myself  and  those  whose  backs  are  strong 
enough  to  bear  it.  But  it  is  cruel  and  stupid  to  tell  it  to  the 
rest.  Yes.  I  see  that  now.  At  home  that  would  never  have 
occurred  to  me:  in  Germany  people  are  not  so  morbid  about 
the  truth  as  they  are  here:  they're  too  much  taken  up  with  liv- 
ing :  very  wisely  they  see  only  what  they  wish  to  see.  I  love  you 
for  not  being  like  that:  you  are  honest  and  go  straight  ahead. 
But  you  are  inhuman.  When  you  think  you  have  unearthed 


THE  HOUSE  357 

a  truth,  you  let  it  loose  upon  the  world,  without  stopping  to 
think  whether,  like  the  foxes  in  the  Bible  with  their  burning 
tails,  it  will  not  set  fire  to  the  world.    I  think  it  is  fine  of  you 
to  prefer  truth  to  your  happiness.     But  when  it  comes  to  the 
happiness  of  other  people.   .    .    .     Then  I  say,  '  Stop ! '     You 
are  taking  too  much  upon  yourselves.     Thou  shalt  love  truth 
more  than  thyself,  but  thy  neighbor  more  than  truth." 
"  Is  one  to  lie  to  one's  neighbor  ?  " 
Christophe  replied  with  the  words  of  Goethe: 
"  We  should  only  express  those  of  the  highest  truths  which 
will  be  to  the  good  of  the  world.     The  rest  we  must  keep  to  our- 
selves: like  the  soft  rays  of  a  hidden  sun,  they  will  shed  their 
light  upon  all  our  actions." 

But  they  were  not  moved  by  these  scruples.  They  never 
stopped  to  think  whether  the  bow  in  their  hands  shot  "ideas 
or  death"  or  both  together.  They  were  too  intellectual.  They 
lacked  love.  When  a  Frenchman  has  ideas  he  tries  to  impose 
them  on  others.  He  tries  to  do  the  same  thing  when  he  has 
none.  And  when  he  sees  that  he  cannot  do  it  he  loses  interest  in 
other  people,  he  loses  interest  in  action.  That  was  the  chief 
reason  why  this  particular  group  took  so  little  interest  in  politics, 
save  to  moan  and  groan.  Each  of  them  was  shut  up  in  his 
faith,  or  want  of  faith. 

Many  attempts  had  been  made  to  break  down  their  in- 
dividualism and  to  form  groups  of  these  men :  but  the  majority 
of  these  groups  had  immediately  resolved  themselves  into  liter- 
ary clubs,  or  split  up  into  absurd  factions.  The  best  of  them 
were  mutually  destructive.  There  were  among  them  some  first- 
rate  men  of  force  and  faith,  men  well  fitted  to  rally  and  guide 
those  of  weaker  will.  But  each  man  had  his  following,  and 
would  not  consent  to  merging  it  with  that  of  other  men.  So 
they  were  split  up  into  a  number  of  reviews,  unions,  associations, 
which  had  all  the  moral  virtues,  save  one:  self-denial;  for  not 
one  of  them  would  give  way  to  the  others:  and,  while  they 
wrangled  over  the  crumbs  that  foil  from  an  honest  and  well- 
meaning  public,  small  in  numbers  and  poor  in  purse,  they 


358  JEAtf-CHRISTOPHE  Itf  PARIS 

vegetated  for  a  short  time,  starved  and  languished,  and  at  last 
collapsed  never  to  rise  again,  not  under  the  assault  of  the  enemy, 
but — (most  pitiful!) — under  the  weight  of  their  own  quarrels. 
— The  various  professions, — men  of  letters,  dramatic  authors, 
poets,  prose  writers,  professors,  members  of  the  Institute,  jour- 
nalists— were  divided  up  into  a  number  of  little  castes,  which 
they  themselves  split  up  again  into  smaller  castes,  each  one  of 
which  closed  its  doors  against  the  rest.  There  was  no  sort  of 
mutual  interchange.  There  was  no  unanimity  on  any  subject 
in  France,  except  at  those  very  rare  moments  when  unanimity 
assumed  an  epidemic  character,  and,  as  a  rule,  was  in  the  wrong : 
for  it  was  morbid.  A  crazy  individualism  predominated  in 
every  kind  of  French  activity :  in  scientific  research  as  well  as  in 
commerce,  in  which  it  prevented  business  men  from  combining 
and  organizing  working  agreements.  This  individualism  was 
not  that  of  a  rich  and  bustling  vitality,  but  that  of  obstinacy 
and  self-repression.  To  be  alone,  to  owe  nothing  to  others,  not 
to  mix  with  others  for  fear  of  feeling  their  inferiority  in  their 
company,  not  to  disturb  the  tranquillity  of  their  haughty  isola- 
tion :  these  were  the  secret  thoughts  of  almost  all  these  men  who 
founded  "  outside  "  reviews,  "  outside  "  theaters,  "  outside  " 
groups :  reviews,  theaters,  groups,  all  most  often  had  no  other 
reason  for  existing  than  the  desire  not  to  be  with  the  general 
herd,  and  an  incapacity  for  joining  with  other  people  in  a  com- 
mon idea  or  course  of  action,  distrust  of  other  people,  or,  at 
the  very  worst,  party  hostility,  setting  one  against  the  other 
the  very  men  who  were  most  fitted  to  understand  each  other. 

Even  when  men  who  thought  highly  of  each  other  were 
united  in  some  common  task,  like  Olivier  and  his  colleagues 
on  the  Esope  review,  they  always  seemed  to  be  on  their  guard 
with  each  other:  they  had  nothing  of  that  open-handed  geni- 
ality so  common  in  Germany,  where  it  is  apt  to  become  a 
nuisance.  Among  these  young  men  there  was  one  especially 
who  attracted  Christophe  because  he  divined  him  to  be  a  man  of 
exceptional  force:  he  was  a  writer  of  inflexible  logic  and  will, 
with  a  passion  for  moral  ideas,  in  the  service  of  which  he  was 


THE  HOUSE  359 

absolutely  uncompromising  and  ready  in  their  cause  to  sacrifice 
the  whole  world  and  himself:  he  had  founded  and  conducted 
almost  unaided  a  review  in  which  to  uphold  them :  he  had  sworn 
to  impose  on  Europe  and  on  France  the  idea  of  a  pure,  heroic, 
and  free  France:  he  firmly  believed  that  the  world  would  one 
day  recognize  that  he  was  responsible  for  one  of  the  boldest 
pages  in  the  history  of  French  thought: — and  he  was  not  mis- 
taken. Christophe  would  have  been  only  too  glad  to  know  him 
better  and  to  be  his  friend.  But  there  was  no  way  of  bringing  it 
about.  Although  Olivier  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  him 
they  saw  very  little  of  each  other  except  on  business :  they  never 
discussed  any  intimate  matter,  and  never  got  any  farther  than 
the  exchange  of  a  few  abstract  ideas:  or  rather — (for,  to  be 
exact,  there  was  no  exchange,  and  each  adhered  to  his  own 
ideas) — they  soliloquized  in  each  other's  company  in  turn.  How- 
ever, they  were  comrades  in  arms  and  knew  their  worth. 

There  were  innumerable  reasons  for  this  reservedness,  reasons 
difficult  to  discern,  even  for  their  own  eyes.  The  first  reason 
was  a  too  great  critical  faculty,  which  saw  too  clearly  the  un- 
alterable differences  between  one  mind  and  another,  backed  by 
an  excessive  intellectualism  which  attached  too  much  importance 
to  those  differences:  they  lacked  that  puissant  and  naive  sym- 
pathy whose  vital  need  is  of  love,  the  need  of  giving  out  its 
overflowing  love.  Then,  too,  perhaps  overwork,  the  struggle 
for  existence,  the  fever  of  thought,  which  so  taxes  strength 
that  by  the  evening  there  is  none  left  for  friendly  intercourse, 
had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it.  And  there  was  that  terrible 
feeling,  which  every  Frenchman  is  afraid  to  admit,  though  too 
often  it  is  stirring  in  his  heart,  the  feeling  of  not  being  of  one 
race,  the  feeling  that  the  nation  consists  of  different  races 
established  at  different  epochs  on  the  soil  of  France,  who, 
though  all  bound  together,  have  few  ideas  in  common,  and 
therefore  ought  not,  in  the  common  interest,  to  ponder  them 
too  much.  But  above  all  the  reason  was  to  seek  in  the  in- 
toxicating and  dangerous  passion  for  liberty,  to  which,  when  a 
man  has  once  tasted  it,  there  is  nothing  that  he  will  not 


360  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

sacrifice.  Such  solitary  freedom  is  all  the  more  precious  for 
having  been  bought  by  years  of  tribulation.  The  select  few 
have  taken  re'uge  in  it  to  escape  the  slavishness  of  the  mediocre. 
It  is  a  reaction  against  the  tyranny  of  the  political  and  religious 
masses,  the  terrific  crushing  weight  which  overbears  the  in- 
dividual in  France :  the  family,  public  opinion,  the  State,  secret 
societies,  parties,  coteries,  schools.  Imagine  a  prisoner  who,  to 
escape,  has  to  scale  twenty  great  walls  hemming  him  in.  If 
he  manages  to  clear  them  all  without  breaking  his  neck,  and, 
above  all,  without  losing  heart,  he  must  be  strong  indeed.  A 
rough  schooling  for  free-will !  But  those  who  have  gone 
through  it  bear  the  marks  of  it  all  their  life  in  the  mania  for 
independence,  and  the  impossibility  of  their  ever  living  in  the 
lives  of  others. 

Side  by  side  with  this  loneliness  of  pride,  there  was  the 
loneliness  of  renunciation.  There  were  many,  many  good  men 
in  France  whose  goodness  and  pride  and  affection  came  to 
nothing  in  withdrawal  from  life!  A  thousand  reasons,  good 
and  bad,  stood  in  the  way  of  action  for  them.  With  some  it 
was  obedience,  timidity,  force  of  habit.  With  others  human 
respect,  fear  of  ridicule,  fear  of  being  conspicuous,  of  being  a 
mark  for  the  comments  of  the  gallery,  of  meddling  with  things 
that  did  not  concern  them,  of  having  their  disinterested  actions 
attributed  to  motives  of  interest.  There  were  men  who  would 
not  take  part  in  any  political  or  social  struggle,  women  who 
declined  to  undertake  any  philanthropic  work,  because  there 
were  too  many  people  engaged  in  these  things  who  lacked  con- 
science and  even  common  sense,  and  because  they  were  afraid  of 
the  taint  of  these  charlatans  and  fools.  In  almost  all  such 
people  there  are  disgust,  weariness,  dread  of  action,  suffering, 
ugliness,  stupidity,  risks,  responsibilities :  the  terrible  "  What's 
the  use?"  which  destroys  the  good-will  of  so  many  of  the 
French  of  to-day.  They  are  too  intelligent, —  (their  intelligence 
has  no  wide  sweep  of  the  wings), — they  are  too  intent  upon 
reasons  for  and  against.  They  lack  force.  They  lack  vitality. 
When  a  man's  life  beats  strongly  he  never  wonders  why  he  goes 


THE  HOUSE  361 

on  living:  he  lives  for  the  sake  of  living, — because  it  is  a 
splendid  thing  to  be  alive ! 

In  fine,  the  best  of  them  were  a  mixture  of  sympathetic  and 
average  qualities:  a  modicum  of  philosophy,  moderate  desires, 
fond  attachment  to  the  family,  the  earth,  moral  custom:  dis- 
cretion, dread  of  intruding,  of  being  a  nuisance  to  other  peo- 
ple: modesty  of  feeling,  unbending  reserve.  All  these  amiable 
and  charming  qualities  could,  in  certain  cases,  be  brought  into 
line  with  serenity,  courage,  and  inward  joy :  but  at  bottom  there 
was  a  certain  connection  between  them  and  poverty  in  the 
blood,  the  progressive  ebb  of  French  vitality. 

The  pretty  garden,  beneath  the  house  in  which  Christophe 
and  Olivier  lived,  tucked  away  between  the  four  walls,  was  sym- 
bolical of  that  part  of  the  life  of  France.  It  was  a  little  patch 
of  green  earth  shut  off  from  the  outer  world.  Only  now  and 
then  did  the  mighty  wind  of  the  outer  air,  whirling  down, 
bring  to  the  girl  dreaming  there  the  breath  of  the  distant  fields 
and  the  vast  earth. 

Now  that  Christophe  was  beginning  to  perceive  the  hidden 
resources  of  France  he  was  furious  that  she  should  suffer  the 
oppression  of  the  rabble.  The  half-light,  in  which  the  select 
and  silent  few  were  huddled  away,  stifled  him.  Stoicism  is  a 
fine  thing  for  those  whose  teeth  are  gone.  But  he  needed  the 
open  air,  the  great  public,  the  sunshine  of  glory,  the  love  of 
thousands  of  men  and  women:  he  needed  to  hold  close  to  him 
those  whom  he  loved,  to  pulverize  his  enemies,  to  fight  and  to 
conquer. 

"  You  can,"  said  Olivier.  "  You  are  strong.  You  were  born 
to  conquer  through  your  faults — (forgive  me!) — as  well  as 
through  your  qualities.  You  are  lucky  enough  not  to  belong 
to  a  race  and  a  nation  which  are  too  aristocratic.  Action  does 
not  repel  you.  If  need  be  you  could  even  become  a  politician. 
— Besides,  you  have  the  inestimable  good  fortune  to  write  music. 
Nobody  understands  you,  and  so  you  can  say  anything  and 
everything.  If  people  had  any  idea  of  the  contempt  for  them- 


362  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

selves  which  you  put  into  your  music,  and  your  faith  in  what 
they  deny,  and  your  perpetual  hymn  in  praise  of  what  they 
are  always  trying  to  kill,  they  would  never  forgive  you,  and 
you  would  be  so  fettered,  and  persecuted,  and  harassed,  that  you 
would  waste  most  of  your  strength  in  fighting  them :  when  you 
had  beaten  them  back  you  would  have  no  breath  left  for  going 
on  with  your  work :  your  life  would  be  finished.  The  great  men 
who  triumph  have  the  good  luck  to  be  misunderstood.  They 
are  admired  for  the  very  opposite  of  what  they  are." 

"  Pooh !  "  said  Christophe.  "  You  don't  understand  howi 
cowardly  your  masters  are.  At  first  I  thought  you  were  alone, 
and  I  used  to  find  excuses  for  your  inaction.  But,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  there's  a  whole  army  of  you  all  of  the  same  mind. 
You  are  a  hundred  times  stronger  than  your  oppressors,  you  are 
a  thousand  times  more  worthy,  and  you  let  them  impose  on  you 
with  their  effrontery!  I  don't  understand  you.  You  live  in  a 
most  beautiful  country,  you  are  gifted  with  the  finest  intelligence 
and  the  most  human  quality  of  mind,  and  with  it  all  you  do 
nothing :  you  allow  yourselves  to  be  overborne  and  outraged  and 
trampled  underfoot  by  a  parcel  of  fools.  Good  Lord !  Be  your- 
selves! Don't  wait  for  Heaven  or  a  Napoleon  to  come  to  your 
aid  !  Arise,  band  yourselves  together !  Get  to  work,  all  of  you ! 
Sweep  out  your  house !  " 

But  Olivier  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said,  wearily  and 
ironically : 

"  Grapple  with  them  ?  No.  That  is  not  our  game :  we 
have  better  things  to  do.  Violence  disgusts  me.  I  know  only 
too  well  what  would  happen.  All  the  old  embittered  failures, 
the  young  Eoyalist  idiots,  the  odious  apostles  of  brutality  and 
hatred,  would  seize  on  anything  I  did  and  bring  it  to  dis- 
honor. Do  you  want  me  to  adopt  the  old  device  of  hate :  Fuori 
Barbari,  or:  France  for  the  French?" 

"Why  not?"  asked  Christophe. 

"No.  Such  a  device  is  not  for  the  French.  Any  attempt 
to  propagate  it  among  our  people  under  cover  of  patriotism 
must  fail.  It  is  good  enough  for  barbarian  countries!  But 


THE  HOUSE  363 

our  country  has  no  use  for  hatred.  Our  genius  never  yet  as- 
serted itself  by  denying  or  destroying  the  genius  of  other  coun- 
tries, but  by  absorbing  them.  Let  the  troublous  North  and 
the  loquacious  South  come  to  us.  ..." 

"  And  the  poisonous  East  ?  " 

"And  the  poisonous  East:  we  will  absorb  it  with  the  rest: 
we  have  absorbed  many  others !  I  just  laugh  at  the  air  of  tri- 
umph they  assume,  and  the  pusillanimity  of  some  of  my  fellow- 
countrymen.  They  think  they  have  conquered  us,  they  strut 
about  our  boulevards,  and  in  our  newspapers  and  reviews,  and 
in  our  theaters  and  in  the  political  arena.  Idiots!  It  is  they 
who  are  conquered !  They  will  be  assimilated  after  having  fed 
us.  Gaul  has  a  strong  stomach :  in  these  twenty  centuries  she 
has  digested  more  than  one  civilization.  We  are  proof  against 
poison.  ...  It  is  meet  that  you  Germans  should  be  afraid! 
You  must  be  pure  or  impure.  But  with  us  it  is  not  a  matter 
of  purity  but  of  universality.  You  have  an  Emperor:  Great 
Britain  calls  herself  an  Empire:  but,  in  fact,  it  is  our  Latin 
Genius  that  is  Imperial.  We  are  the  citizens  of  the  City  of 
the  Universe.  Urbis,  Orbis." 

"  That  is  all  very  well,"  said  Christophe,  "  as  long  as  the 
nation  is  healthy  and  in  the  flower  of  its  manhood.  But  there 
will  come  a  day  when  its  energy  declines:  and  then  there  is  a 
danger  of  its  being  submerged  by  the  influx  of  foreigners.  Be- 
tween ourselves,  does  it  not  seem  as  though  that  day  had  ar- 
rived?" 

"  People  have  been  saying  that  for  ages.  Again  and  again 
our  history  has  given  the  lie  to  such  fears.  We  have  passed 
through  many  different  trials  since  the  days  of  the  Maid  of 
Orleans,  when  Paris  was  deserted,  and  bands  of  wolves  prowled 
through  the  streets.  Neither  in  the  prevalent  immorality, 
nor  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  nor  the  laxness,  nor  the  anarchy  of 
the  present  day,  do  I  see  any  cause  for  fear.  Patience!  Those 
who  wish  to  live  must  endure  in  patience.  I  am  sure  that  pres- 
ently there  will  be  a  moral  reaction, — which  will  not  be  much 
better,  and  will  probably  lead  to  an  equaPctegree  of  folly;  those 


364  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

who  are  now  living  on  the  corruptness  of  public  life  will  not 
be  the  least  clamorous  in  the  reaction!  .  .  .  But  what  does 
that  matter  to  us?  All  these  movements  do  not  touch  the  real 
people  of  France.  Rotten  fruit  does  not  corrupt  the  tree.  It 
falls.  Besides,  all  these  people  are  such  a  small  part  of  the 
nation!  What  does  it  matter  to  us  whether  they  live  or  die? 
Why  should  I  bother  to  organize  leagues  and  revolutions  against 
them?  The  existing  evil  is  not  the  work  of  any  form  of  gov- 
ernment. It  is  the  leprosy  of  luxury,  a  contagion  spread  by 
the  parasites  of  intellectual  and  material  wealth.  Such  para- 
sites will  perish." 

"  After  they  have  sapped  your  vitality." 

"It  is  impossible  to  despair  of  such  a  race.  There  is  in  it 
such  hidden  virtue,  such  a  power  of  light  and  practical  ideal- 
ism, that  they  creep  into  the  veins  even  of  those  who  are  ex- 
ploiting and  ruining  the  nation.  Even  the  grasping,  self-seek- 
ing politicians  succumb  to  its  fascination.  Even  the  most 
mediocre  of  men  when  they  are  in  power  are  gripped  by  the 
greatness  of  its  Destiny:  it  lifts  them  out  of  themselves:  the 
torch  is  passed  on  from  hand  to  hand  among  them:  one  after 
another  they  resume  the  holy  war  against  darkness.  They  are 
drawn  onward  by  the  genius  of  the  people :  willy-nilly  they  fulfil 
the  law  of  the  God  whom  they  deny,  Gesta  Dei  per  Francos. 
...  0  my  beloved  country,  I  will  never  lose  my  faith  in 
thee !  And  though  in  thy  trials  thou  didst  perish,  yet  would  I 
find  in  that  only  a  reason  the  more  for  my  proud  belief,  even 
to  the  bitter  end,  in  our  mission  in  the  world.  I  will  not  have 
my  beloved  France  fearfully  shutting  herself  up  in  a  sick- 
room; and  closing  every  inlet  to  the  outer  air.  I  have  no  mind 
to  prolong  a  sickly  existence.  When  a  nation  has  been  so 
great  as  we  have  been,  then  it  were  far  better  to  die  rather 
than  to  sink  from  greatness.  Therefore  let  the  ideas  of  the 
world  rush  into  the  channels  of  our  minds!  I  am  not  afraid. 
The  flood  will  go  down  of  its  own  accord  after  it  has  enriched 
the  soil  of  France  with  its  ooze." 

"My  poor  dear  fellow,"  said  Christophe,  "but  it's  a  grim 


THE  HOUSE  365 

prospect  in  the  meanwhile.  Where  will  you  be  when  your 
France  emerges  from  the  Nile?  Don't  you  think  it  would  be 
better  to  fight  against  it?  You  wouldn't  risk  anything  except 
defeat,  and  you  seem  inclined  to  impose  that  on  yourself  as  long 
as  you  like." 

"  I  should  be  risking  much  more  than  defeat,"  said  Olivier. 
"  I  should  be  running  the  risk  of  losing  my  peace  of  mind,  which 
I  prize  far  more  than  victory.  I  will  not  be  a  party  to  hatred. 
I  will  be  just  to  all  my  enemies.  In  the  midst  of  passion  I 
wish  to  preserve  the  clarity  of  my  vision,  to  understand  and 
love  everything." 

But  Christophe,  to  whom  this  love  of  life,  detached  from 
life,  seemed  to  be  very  little  different  from  resignation  and  ac- 
ceptance of  death,  felt  in  his  heart,  as  in  Empedocles  of  old, 
the  stirring  of  a  hymn  to  Hatred  and  to  Love,  the  brother  of 
Hate,  fruitful  Love,  tilling  and  sowing  good  seed  in  the  earth. 
He  did  not  share  Olivier's  calm  fatalism:  he  had  no  such  con- 
fidence in  the  continuance  of  a  race  which  did  not  defend  it- 
self, and  his  desire  was  to  appeal  to  all  the  healthy  forces  of 
the  nation,  to  call  forth  and  band  together  all  the  honest  men 
in  the  whole  of  France. 

Just  as  it  is  possible  to  learn  more  of  a  human  being  in  one 
minute  of  love  than  in  months  of  observation,  so  Christophe  had 
learned  more  about  France  in  a  week  of  intimacy  with  Olivier, 
hardly  ever  leaving  the  house,  than  during  a  whole  year  of  blind 
wandering  through  Paris,  and  standing  at  attention  at  various 
intellectual  and  political  gatherings.  Amid  the  universal  anar- 
chy in  which  he  had  been  floundering,  a  soul  like  that  of 
his  friend  seemed  to  him  veritably  to  be  the  "  lie  de  France  " — 
the  island  of  reason  and  serenity  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean.  The 
inward  peace  which  was  in  Olivier  was  all  the  more  striking,  in- 
asmuch as  it  had  no  intellectual  support, — as  it  existed  amid 
unhappy  circumstances, — (in  povertySmd  solitude,  while  the 
country  of  its  birth  was  decadent), — and  as  its  body  was  weak, 


366  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

sickly,  and  nerve-ridden.  That  serenity  was  apparently  not  the 
fruit  of  any  effort  of  will  striving  to  realize  it, — (Olivier  had 
little  will)  ; — it  came  from  the  depths  of  his  being  and  his 
race.  In  many  of  the  men  of  Olivier's  acquaintance  Chris- 
tophe  perceived  the  distant  light  of  that  o-axfyxxrwi?, — "the 
silent  calm  of  the  motionless  sea"; — and  he,  who  knew,  none 
better,  the  stormy,  troublous  depths  of  his  own  soul,  and  how 
he  had  to  stretch  his  will-power  to  the  utmost  to  maintain  the 
balance  in  his  lusty  nature,  marveled  at  its  veiled  harmony. 

What  he  had  seen  of  the  inner  France  had  upset  all  his  pre- 
conceived ideas  about  the  character  of  the  French.  Instead  of 
a  gay,  sociable,  careless,  brilliant  people,  he  saw  men  of  a  head- 
strong and  close  temper,  living  in  isolation,  wrapped  about  with 
a  seeming  optimism,  like  a  gleaming  mist,  while  they  were  in 
fact  steeped  in  a  deep-rooted  and  serene  pessimism,  possessed 
by  fixed  ideas,  intellectual  passions,  indomitable  souls,  which  it 
would  have  been  easier  to  destroy  than  to  alter.  ISTo  doubt  these 
men  were  only  the  select  few  among  the  French:  but  Chris- 
tophe  wondered  where  they  could  have  come  by  their  stoicism 
and  their  faith.  Olivier  told  him: 

"  In  defeat.  It  is  you,  my  dear  Christophe,  who  have  forged 
us  anew.  Ah !  But  we  suffered  for  it,  too.  You  can  have  no 
idea  of  the  darkness  in  which  we  grew  up  in  a  France  humiliated 
and  sore,  which  had  come  face  to  face  with  death,  and  still  felt 
the  heavy  weight  of  the  murderous  menace  of  force.  Our  life, 
our  genius,  our  French  civilization,  the  greatness  of  a  thou- 
sand years, — we  were  conscious  that  France  was  in  the  hands 
of  a  brutal  conqueror  who  did  not  understand  her,  and  hated 
her  in  his  heart,  and  at  any  moment  might  crush  the  life  out 
of  her  for  ever.  And  we  had  to  live  for  that  and  no  other 
destiny!  Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  French  children  born 
in  houses  of  death  in  the  shadow  of  defeat,  fed  with  ideas  of 
discouragement,  trained  to  strike  for  a  bloody,  fatal,  and  per- 
haps futile  revenge:  for  even  as  babies,  the  first  thing  they 
learned  was  that  there  was  no  justice,  there  was  no  justice  in  the 
world:  might  prevailed  against  right!  For  a  child  to  open  its 


THE  HOUSE  367 

eyes  upon  such  things  is  for  its  soul  to  be  degraded  or  uplifted 
for  ever.  Many  succumbed :  they  said :  '  Since  it  is  so,  why 
struggle  against  it  ?  Why  do  anything  ?  Everything  is  nothing. 
We'll  not  think  of  it.  Let  us  enjoy  ourselves.' — But  those  who 
stood  out  against  it  are  proof  against  fire:  no  disillusion  can 
touch  their  faith:  for  from  their  earliest  childhood  they  have 
known  that  their  road  could  never  lead  them  near  the  road  to 
happiness,  and  that  they  had  no  choice  but  to  follow  it:  else 
they  would  suffocate.  Such  assurance  is  not  come  by  all  at 
once.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  of  boys  of  fifteen.  There  is 
bitter  agony  before  it  is  attained,  and  many  tears  are  shed.  But 
it  is  well  that  it  should  be  so.  It  must  be  so.  ... 

"  0  Faith,  virgin  of  steel  .    .    . 

"  Dig  deep  with  thy  lance  into  the  downtrodden  hearts  of  the 
peoples!  .  .  ." 

In  silence  Christophe  pressed  Olivier's  hand. 

"Dear  Christophe,"  said  Olivier,  "your  Germany  has  made 
us  suffer  indeed." 

And  Christophe  begged  for  forgiveness  almost  as  though  he 
had  been  responsible  for  it. 

"  There's  nothing  for  you  to  worry  about,"  said  Olivier,  smil- 
ing. "  The  good  it  has  unintentionally  done  us  far  outweighs 
the  ill.  You  have  rekindled  our  idealism,  you  have  revived  in 
us  the  keen  desire  for  knowledge  and  faith,  you  have  filled  our 
France  with  schools,  you  have  raised  to  the  highest  pitch  the 
creative  powers  of  a  Pasteur,  whose  discoveries  are  alone  worth 
more  than  your  indemnity  of  two  hundred  million;  you  have 
given  new  life  to  our  poetry,  our  painting,  our  music:  to  you 
we  owe  the  new  awakening  of  the  consciousness  of  our  race. 
We  have  reward  enough  for  the  effort  needed  to  learn  to  set  our 
faith  before  our  happiness:  for,  in  doing  so,  we  have  come 
by  a  feeling  of  such  moral  force^iat,  amid  the  apathy  of  the 
world,  we  have  no  doubt,  even  of  victory  in  the  end.  Though 
we  are  few  in  number,  my  dear  Christophe,  though  we  seem 
so  weak, — a  drop  of  water  in  the  ocean  of  German  power — we 
believe  that  the  drop  of  water  will  in  the  end  color  the  whole 


368  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

ocean.  The  Macedonian  phalanx  will  destroy  the  mighty  armies 
of  the  plebs  of  Europe." 

Christophe  looked  down  at  the  puny  Olivier,  in  whose  eyes 
there  shone  the  light  of  faith,  and  he  said : 

"  Poor  weakly  little  Frenchmen !  You  are  stronger  than  we 
are." 

"  0  beneficent  defeat,"  Olivier  went  on.  "  Blessed  be  that 
disaster !  We  will  no  more  deny  it !  We  are  its  children." 


II 

DEFEAT  new-forges  the  chosen  among  men:  it  sorts  out  the 
people :  it  winnows  out  those  who  are  purest  and  strongest,  and 
makes  them  purer  and  stronger.  But  it  hastens  the  downfall 
of  the  rest,  or  cuts  short  their  flight.  In  that  way  it  separates 
the  mass  of  the  people,  who  slumber  or  fall  by  the  way,  from  the 
chosen  few  who  go  marching  on.  The  chosen  few  know  it  and 
suffer :  even  in  the  most  valiant  there  is  a  secret  melancholy,  a 
feeling  of  their  own  impotence  and  isolation.  Worst  of  all, — 
cut  off  from  the  great  mass  of  their  people,  they  are  also  cut 
off  from  each  other.  Each  must  fight  for  his  own  hand.  The 
strong  among  them  think  only  of  self-preservation.  0  man, 
help  thyself!  .  .  .  They  never  dream  that  the  sturdy  saying 
means:  0  men,  help  yourselves!  In  all  there  is  a  want  of  con- 
fidence, they  lack  free-flowing  sympathy,  and  do  not  feel  the 
need  of  common  action  which  makes  a  race  victorious,  the  feel- 
ing of  overflowing  strength,  of  reaching  upward  to  the  zenith. 

Christophe  and  Olivier  knew  something  of  all  this.  In  Paris, 
full  of  men  and  women  who  could  have  understood  them,  in 
the  house  peopled  with  unknown  friends,  they  were  as  solitary  as 
in  a  desert  of  Asia. 

They  were  very  poor.  Their  resources  were  almost  nil. 
Christophe  had  only  the  copying  and  transcriptions  of  music 
given  him  by  Hecht.  Olivier  had  very  unwisely  thrown  up  his 


THE  HOUSE  369 

post  at  the  University  during  the  period  of  depression  follow- 
ing on  his  sister's  death,  which  had  been  accentuated  by  an 
unhappy  love  affair  with  a  young  lady  he  had  met  at  Madame 
Nathan's: — (he  had  never  mentioned  it  to  Christophe,  for  he 
was  modest  about  his  troubles:  part  of  his  charm  lay  in  the 
little  air  of  mystery  which  he  always  preserved  about  his  pri- 
vate affairs,  even  with  his  friend,  from  whom,  however,  he  made 
no  attempt  to  conceal  anything). — In  his  depressed  condition 
when  he  had  longed  for  silence  his  work  as  a  lecturer  became  in- 
tolerable to  him.  He  had  never  cared  for  the  profession,  which 
necessitates  a  certain  amount  of  showing  off,  and  thinking  aloud, 
while  it  gives  a  man  no  time  to  himself.  If  teaching  in  a 
school  is  to  be  at  all  a  noble  thing  it  must  be  a  matter  of  a  sort 
of  apostolic  vocation,  and  that  Olivier  did  not  possess  in  the 
slightest  degree:  and  lecturing  for  any  of  the  Faculties  means 
being  perpetually  in  contact  with  the  public,  which  is  a  grim 
fate  for  a  man,  like  Olivier,  with  a  desire  for  solitude.  On 
several  occasions  he  had  had  to  speak  in  public:  it  gave  him  a 
singular  feeling  of  humiliation.  At  first  he  loathed  being  ex- 
hibited on  a  platform.  He  saw  the  audience,  felt  it,  as  with 
antennae,  and  knew  that  for  the  most  part  it  was  composed  of 
idle  people  who  were  there  only  for  the  sake  of  having  some- 
thing to  do :  and  the  role  of  official  entertainer  was  not  at  all  to 
his  liking.  Worst  of  all,  speaking  from  a  platform  is  almost 
bound  to  distort  ideas :  if  the  speaker  does  not  take  care  there 
is  a  danger  of  his  passing  gradually  from  a  certain  theatricality 
in  gesture,  diction,  attitude,  and  the  form  in  which  he  presents 
his  ideas — to  mental  trickery.  A  lecture  is  a  thing  hovering 
in  the  balance  between  tiresome  comedy  and  polite  pedantry. 
For  an  artist  who  is  rather  bashfukand  proud,  a  lecture,  which 
is  a  monologue  shouted  in  the  presence  of  a  few  hundred  un- 
known, silent  people,  a  ready-made  garment  warranted  to  fit  all 
sizes,  though  it  actually  fits  no  one,  is  a  thing  intolerably  false. 
Olivier,  being  more  and  more  under  the  necessity  of  withdraw- 
ing into  himself  and  saying  nothing  which  was  not  wholly  the 
expression  of  his  thought,  gave  up  the  profession  of  teaching, 


370  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

which  he  had  had  so  much  difficulty  in  entering:  and,  as  he 
no  longer  had  his  sister  to  check  him  in  his  tendency  to  dream, 
he  began  to  write.  He  was  na'ive  enough  to  believe  that  his  un- 
doubted worth  as  an  artist  could  not  fail  to  be  recognized  without 
his  doing  anything  to  procure  recognition. 

He  was  quickly  undeceived.  He  found  it  impossible  to  get 
anything  published.  He  had  a  jealous  love  of  liberty,  which 
gave  him  a  horror  of  everything  that  might  impinge  on  it,  and 
made  him  live  apart,  like  a  poor  starved  plant,  among  the  solid 
masses  of  the  political  churches  whose  baleful  associations  di- 
vided the  country  and  the  Press  between  them.  He  was  just  as 
much  cut  off  from  all  the  literary  coteries  and  rejected  by 
them.  He  had  not,  nor  could  he  have,  a  single  friend  among 
them.  He  was  repelled  by  the  hardness,  the  dryness,  the  egoism 
of  the  intellectuals — (except  for  the  very  few  who  were  follow- 
ing a  real  vocation,  or  were  absorbed  by  a  passionate  enthusiasm 
for  scientific  research).  That  man  is  a  sorry  creature  who  has 
let  his  heart  atrophy  for  the  sake  of  his  mind — when  his  mind 
is  small.  In  such  a  man  there  is  no  kindness,  only  a  brain 
like  a  dagger  in  a  sheath:  there  is  no  knowing  but  it  will  one 
day  cut  your  throat.  Against  such  a  man  it  is  necessary  to  be 
always  armed.  Friendship  is  only  possible  with  honest  men, 
who  love  fine  things  for  their  own  sake,  and  not  for  what  they 
can  make  out  of  them, — those  who  live  outside  their  art.  The 
majority  of  men  cannot  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  art.  Only 
the  very  great  can  live  in  it  without  loss  of  love,  which  is  the 
source  of  life. 

Olivier  could  only  count  on  himself.  And  that  was  a  very 
precarious  support.  Any  fresh  step  was  a  matter  of  extreme 
difficulty  to  him.  He  was  not  disposed  to  accept  humiliation 
for  the  sake  of  his  work.  He  went  hot  with  shame  at  the  base 
and  obsequious  homage  which  young  authors  forced  themselves 
to  pay  to  a  well-known  theater  manager,  who  took  advantage 
of  their  cowardice,  and  treated  them  as  he  would  never  dare  to 
treat  his  servants.  Olivier  could  never  have  done  that  to  save 
his  life.  He  just  sent  his  manuscripts  by  post,  or  left  them 


THE  HOUSE  371 

at  the  offices  of  the  theaters  or  the  reviews,  where  they  lay 
for  months  unread.  However,  one  day  by  chance  he  met  one 
of  his  old  schoolfellows,  an  amiable  loafer,  who  had  still  a  sort 
of  grateful  admiration  for  him  for  the  ease  and  readiness  with 
which  Olivier  had  done  his  exercises :  he  knew  nothing  at  all 
about  literature:  but  he  knew  several  literary  men,  which  was 
much  better:  he  was  rich  and  in  society,  something  of  a  snob, 
and  so  he  let  them,  discreetly,  exploit  him.  He  put  in  a  word 
for  Olivier  with  the  editor  of  an  important  review  in  which  he 
was  a  shareholder :  and  at  once  one  of  his  forgotten  manuscripts 
was  disinterred  and  read:  and,  after  much  temporization, — (for, 
if  the  article  seemed  to  be  worth  something,  the  author's  name, 
being  unknown,  was  valueless), — they  decided  to  accept  it. 
When  he  heard  the  good  news  Olivier  thought  his  troubles  were 
over.  They  were  only  just  beginning. 

It  is  comparatively  easy  to  have  an  article  accepted  in  Paris : 
but  getting  it  published  is  quite  a  different  matter.  The  un- 
happy writer  has  to  wait  and  wait,  for  months,  if  need  be  for 
life,  if  he  has  not  acquired  the  trick  of  flattering  people,  or 
bullying  them,  and  showing  himself  from  time  to  time  at  the 
receptions  of  these  petty  monarchs,  and  reminding  them  of  his 
existence,  and  making  it  clear  that  he  means  to  go  on  being  a 
nuisance  to  them  as  long  as  they  make  it  necessary.  Olivier 
just  stayed  at  home,  and  wore  himself  out  with  waiting.  At  best 
he  would  write  a  letter  or  two  which  were  never  answered.  He 
would,  lose  heart,  and  be  unable  to  work.  It  was  quite  absurd, 
but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  He  would  wait  for  post  after 
post,  sitting  at  his  desk,  with  his  mind  blanketed  by  all  sorts  of 
vague  injuries:  then  he  would  get  uto  and  go  downstairs  to  the 
porter's  room,  and  look  hopefully  in  his  letter-box,  only  to  meet 
with  disappointment:  he  would  walk  blindly  about  with  no 
thought  in  his  head  but  to  go  back  and  look  again:  and  when 
the  last  post  had  gone,  when  the  silence  of  his  room  was  broken 
only  by  the  heavy  footsteps  of  the  people  in  the  room  above, 
he  would  feel  strangled  by  the  cruel  indifference  of  it  all.  Only 
a  word  of  reply,  only  a  word !  Could  that  be  refused  him  if  only 


372  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

in  charity?  And  yet  those  who  refused  him  that  had  no  idea 
of  the  hurt  they  were  dealing  him.  Every  man  sees  the  world 
in  his  own  image.  Those  who  have  no  life  in  their  hearts  see 
the  universe  as  withered  and  dry:  and  they  never  dream  of  the 
anguish  of  expectation,  hope,  and  suffering  which  rends  the 
hearts  of  the  young :  or  if  they  give  it  a  thought,  they  judge  them 
coldly,  with  the  weary,  ponderous  irony  of  those  who  are  sur- 
feited and  beyond  the  freshness  of  life. 

At  last  the  article  appeared.  Olivier  had  waited  so  long  that 
it  gave  him  no  pleasure :  the  thing  was  dead  for  him.  And  yet 
he  hoped  desperately  that  it  would  be  a  living  thing  for  others. 
There  were  flashes  of  poetry  and  intelligence  in  it  which  could 
not  pass  unnoticed.  It  fell  upon  absolute  silence. — He  made 
two  or  three  more  attempts.  Being  attached  to  no  clique  he  met 
with  silence  or  hostility  everywhere.  He  could  not  understand 
it.  He  had  thought  simply  that  everybody  must  be  naturally 
well-disposed  towards  the  work  of  a  new  man,  even  if  it  was 
not  very  good.  It  always  represents  such  an  amount  of  work, 
and  surely  people  would  be  grateful  to  a  man  who  has  tried 
to  give  others  a  little  beauty,  a  little  force,  a  little  joy.  But  he 
only  met  with  indifference  or  disparagement.  And  yet  he  knew 
that  he  could  not  be  alone  in  feeling  what  he  had  written,  and 
that  it  must  be  in  the  minds  of  other  good  men.  He  did  not 
know  that  such  good  men  did  not  read  him,  and  had  nothing  to 
do  with  literary  opinion,  or  with  anything,  or  with  anything. 
If  here  and  there  there  were  a  few  men  whom  his  words  had 
reached,  men  who  sympathized  with  him,  they  would  never 
tell  him  so :  they  remained  immured  in  their  unnatural  silence. 
Just  as  they  refrained  from  voting,  so  they  took  no  share  in 
art:  they  did  not  read  books,  which  shocked  them:  they  did 
not  go  to  the  theater,  which  disgusted  them :  but  they  let  their 
enemies  vote,  elect  their  enemies,  engineer  a  scandalous  suc- 
cess and  a  vulgar  celebrity  for  books  and  plays  and  ideas  which 
only  represented  an  impudent  minority  of  the  people  of 
France. 

Since  Olivier  could  not  count  on  those  who  were  mentally 


THE  HOUSE  373 

akin  to  himself,  as  they  did  not  read,  he  was  delivered  up  to 
the  hosts  of  the  enemy,  to  the  mercy  of  men  of  letters,  who 
were  for  the  most  part  hostile  to  his  ideas,  and  the  critics  who 
were  at  their  beck  and  call. 

His  first  bouts  with  them  left  him  bleeding.  He  was  as 
sensitive  to  criticism  as  old  Bruchner,  who  could  not  bear  to 
have  his  work  performed,  because  he  had  suffered  so  much  from 
the  malevolence  of  the  Press.  He  did  not  even  win  the  sup- 
port of  his  former  colleagues  at  the  University,  who,  thanks  to 
their  profession,  did  preserve  a  certain  sense  of  the  intellectual 
traditions  of  France,  and  might  have  understood  him.  But  for 
the  most  part  these  excellent  young  men,  cramped  by  discipline, 
absorbed  in  their  work,  often  rather  embittered  by  their  thank- 
less duties,  could  not  forgive  Olivier  for  trying  to  break  away 
and  do  something  else  Like  good  little  officials,  many  of  them 
were  inclined  only  to  admit  the  superiority  of  talent  when  it  was 
consonant  with  hierarchic  superiority. 

In  such  a  position  three  courses  were  open  to  him :  to  break 
down  resistance  by  force :  to  submit  to  humiliating  compromises : 
or  to  make  up  his  mind  to  write  only  for  himself.  Olivier  was 
incapable  of  the  two  first:  he  surrendered  to  the  third.  To 
make  a  living  he  went  through  the  drudgery  of  teaching  and 
went  on  writing,  and  as  there  was  no  possibility  of  his  work 
attaining  full  growth  in  publicity,  it  became  more  and  more 
involved,  chimerical,  and  unreal. 

Christophe  dropped  like  a  thunderbolt  into  the  midst  of  his 
dim  crepuscular  life.  He  was  furmus  at  the  wickedness  of 
people  and  Olivier's  patience. 

"  Have  you  no  blood  in  your  veins  ?  "  he  would  say.  "  How 
can  you  stand  such  a  life?  You  know  your  own  superiority  to 
these  swine,  and  yet  you  let  them  squeeze  the  life  out  of  you 
without  a  murmur !  " 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  Olivier  would  say.  "  I  can't  defend  my- 
self. It  revolts  me  to  fight  with  people  I  despise :  I  know  that 
they  can  use  every  weapon  against  me :  and  I  can't.  Not  only 
should  I  loathe  to  stoop  to  use  the  means  they  employ,  but  I 


374  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

should  be  afraid  of  hurting  them.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  used 
to  let  my  schoolfellows  beat  me  as  much  as  they  liked.  They 
used  to  think  me  a  coward,  and  that  I  was  afraid  of  being  hit. 
I  was  more  afraid  of  hitting  than  of  being  hit.  I  remember 
some  one  saying  to  me  one  day,  when  one  of  my  tormentors 
was  bullying  me :  '  Why  don't  you  stop  it  once  and  for  all, 
and  give  him  a  kick  in  the  stomach?'  That  filled  me  with 
horror.  I  would  much  rather  be  thrashed." 

"  There's  no  blood  in  your  veins,"  said  Christophe.  "  And 
on  top  of  that,  all  sorts  of  Christian  ideas!  .  .  .  Your  re- 
ligious education  in  France  is  reduced  to  the  Catechism:  the 
emasculate  Gospel,  the  tame,  boneless  New  Testament.  .  .  . 
Humanitarian  clap-trap,  always  tearful.  .  .  .  And  the 
Revolution,  Jean-Jacques,  Robespierre,  '48,  and,  on  top  of  that, 
the  Jews!  .  .  .  Take  a  dose  of  the  full-blooded  Old  Testa- 
ment every  morning." 

Olivier  protested.  He  had  a  natural  antipathy  for  the  Old 
Testament,  a  feeling  which  dated  back  to  his  childhood,  when 
he  used  secretly  to  pore  over  an  illustrated  Bible,  which  had 
been  in  the  library  at  home,  where  it  was  never  read,  and  the 
children  were  even  forbidden  to  open  it.  The  prohibition  was 
useless !  Olivier  could  never  keep  the  book  open  for  long.  He 
used  quickly  to  grow  irritated  and  saddened  by  it,  and  then  he 
would  close  it:  and  he  would  find  consolation  in  plunging  into 
the  Iliad,  or  the  Odyssey,  or  the  Arabian  Nights. 

"  The  gods  of  the  Iliad  are  men,  beautiful,  mighty,  vicious : 
I  can  understand  them,"  said  Olivier.  "  I  like  them  or  dislike 
them :  even  when  I  dislike  them  I  still  love  them :  I  am  in  love 
with  them.  More  than  once,  with  Patroclus,  I  have  kissed  the 
lovely  feet  of  Achilles  as  he  lay  bleeding.  But  the  God  of  the 
Bible  is  an  old  Jew,  a  maniac,  a  monomaniac,  a  raging  madman, 
who  spends  his  time  in  growling  and  hurling  threats,  and  howl- 
ing like  an  angry  wolf,  raving  to  himself  in  the  confinement  of 
that  cloud  of  his.  I  don't  understand  him.  I  don't  love  him; 
his  perpetual  curses  make  my  head  ache,  and  his  savagery  fills 
me  with  horror : 


THE  HOUSE  375 

"The  burden  of  Moab.  .    .    . 

"  The  burden  of  Damascus.   .    .    . 

"The  burden  of  Babylon.   .    .  .. 

"  The  burden  of  Egypt.   .    .    . 

"The  burden  of  the  desert  of  the  sea.  .   .   . 

"The  burden  of  the  valley  of  vision.  .    .    . 

He  is  a  lunatic  who  thinks  himself  judge,  public  prosecutor, 
and  executioner  rolled  into  one,  and,  even  in  the  courtyard  of 
his  prison,  he  pronounces  sentence  of  death  on  the  flowers  and 
the  pebbles.  One  is  stupefied  by  the  tenacity  of  his  hatred, 
which  fills  the  book  with  bloody  cries  .  .  . — *a  cry  of  de- 
struction, .  .  .  the  cry  is  gone  round  about  the  borders  of 
Moab :  the  howling  thereof  unto  Eglaim,  and  the  howling  thereof 
unto  Beerelim.  .  .  .' 

"  Every  now  and  then  he  takes  a  rest,  and  looks  round  on 
his  massacres,  and  the  little  children  done  to  death,  and  the 
women  outraged  and  butchered:  and  he  laughs  like  one  of  the 
captains  of  Joshua,  feasting  after  the  sack  of  a  town: 

" '  And  the  Lord  of  hosts  shall  make  unto  all  people  a  feast 
of  fat  things,  a  feast  of  wine  on  the  lees,  of  fat  things  full  of 
marrow,  of  wine  on  the  lees  well  refined.  .  .  .  The  sword  of 
the  Lord  is  filled  with  blood,  it  is  made  fat  with  fatness,  with  the 
fat  of  the  kidneys  of  rams.  .  .  .'  t 

"  But  worst  of  all  is  the  perfidy\with  which  this  God  sends 
his  prophet  to  make  men  blind,  so  that  in  due  course  he  may 
have  a  reason  for  making  them  suffer: 

" '  Make  the  heart  of  this  people  fat,  and  make  their  ear& 
heavy  and  shut  their  eyes:  lest  they  see  with  their  eyes  and 
hear  with  their  ears  and  understand  with  their  heart,  and  con- 
vert, and  be  healed. — Lord,  how  long? — Until  the  cities  be 
wasted  without  inhabitants,  and  the  houses  without  men,  and  the 
land  be  utterly  desolate.  .  .  .'  Oh!  I  have  never  found  a 
man  so  evil  as  that!  .  .  . 

"  I'm  not  so  foolish  as  to  deny  the  force  of  the  language. 
But  I  cannot  separate  thought  and  form:  and  if  I  do  occa- 


376  'JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

sionally  admire  this  Hebrew  God,  it  is  with  the  same  sort  of 
admiration  that  I  feel  for  a  viper,  or  a  .  .  . — (I'm  trying  in 
vain  to  find  a  Shakespearean  monster  as  an  example :  I  can't  find 
one:  even  Shakespeare  never  begat  such  a  hero  of  Hatred — 
saintly  and  virtuous  Hatred).  Such  a  book  is  a  terrible  thing. 
Madness  is  always  contagious.  And  that  particular  madness  is 
all  the  more  dangerous  inasmuch  as  it  sets  up  its  own  murderous 
pride  as  an  instrument  of  purification.  England  makes  me 
shudder  when  I  think  that  her  people  have  for  centuries  been 
nourished  on  no  other  fare.  .  .  .  I'm  glad  to  think  that  there 
is  the  dike  of  the  Channel  between  them  and  me.  I  shall  never 
believe  that  a  nation  is  altogether  civilized  as  long  as  the  Bible 
is  its  staple  food." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Christophe,  "you  will  have  to  be  just 
as  much  afraid  of  me,  for  I  get  drunk  on  it.  It  is  the  very 
marrow  of  a  race  of  lions.  Stout  hearts  are  those  which  feed 
on  it.  Without  the  antidote  of  the  Old  Testament  the  Gospel 
is  tasteless  and  unwholesome  fare.  The  Bible  is  the  bone  and 
sinew  of  nations  with  the  will  to  live.  A  man  must  fight,  and 
he  must  hate." 

"  I  hate  hatred,"  said  Olivier. 

"  I  only  wish  you  did ! "  retorted  Christophe. 

"You're  right.  I'm  too  weak  even  for  that.  What  would 
you?  I  can't  help  seeing  the  arguments  in  favor  of  my  ene- 
mies. And  I  say  to  myself  over  and  over  again,  like  Chardin: 
'Gentleness!  Gentleness!'  ..." 

"  What  a  silly  sheep  you  are ! "  said  Christophe.  "  But 
whether  you  like  it  or  not,  I'm  going  to  make  you  leap  the 
ditch  you're  shying  at,  and  I'm  going  to  drag  you  on  and  beat 
the  big  drum  for  you." 

In  the  upshot  he  took  Olivier's  affairs  in  hand  and  set  out 
to  do  battle  for  him.  His  first  efforts  were  not  very  successful. 
He  lost  his  temper  at  the  very  outset,  and  did  his  friend  much 
harm  by  pleading  his  cause:  he  recognized  what  he  had  done 
very  quickly,  and  was  in  despair  at  his  own  clumsiness. 


THE  HOUSE  377 

Olivier  did  not  stand  idly  by.  He  went  and  fought  for  Chris- 
tophe.  In  spite  of  his  fear  and  dislike  of  fighting,  in  spite  of 
his  lucid  and  ironical  mind,  which  scorned  any  sort  of  ex- 
aggeration in  word  and  deed,  when  it  came  to  defending  Chris- 
tophe  he  was  far  more  violent  than  anybody  else,  and  even  than 
Christophe  himself.  He  lost  his  head.  Love  makes  a  man  ir- 
rational, and  Olivier  was  no  exception  to  the  rule. — However, 
he  was  cleverer  than  Christophe.  Though  he  was  uncompro- 
mising and  clumsy  in  handling  his  own  affairs,  when  it  came  to 
promoting  Christophe's  success  he  was  politic  and  even  tricky: 
he  displayed  an  energy  and  ingenuity  well  calculated  to  win 
support:  he  succeeded  in  interesting  various  musical  critics  and 
Maecenases  in  Christophe,  though  he  would  have  been  utterly 
ashamed  to  approach  them  with  his  own  work. 

In  spite  of  everything  they  found  it  very  difficult  to  better 
their  lot.  Their  love  for  each  other  made  them  do  many  stupid 
things.  Christophe  got  into  debt  over  getting  a  volume  of 
Olivier's  poems  published  secretly,  and  not  a  single  copy  was 
sold.  Olivier  induced  Christophe  to  give  a  concert,  and  hardly 
anybody  came  to  it.  Faced  with  the  empty  hall,  Christophe 
consoled  himself  bravely  with  Handel's  quip :  "  Splendid !  My 
music  will  sound  all  the  better.  ..."  But  these  bold  at- 
tempts did  not  repay  the  money  they  cost:  and  they  would  go 
back  to  their  rooms  full  of  indignation  at  the  indifference  of 
the  world. 

In  their  difficulties  the  only  man  who  came  to  their  aid 
was  a  Jew,  a  man  of  forty,  named  Taddee  Mooch.  He  kept  an 
art-photograph  shop :  but  although  he  was  interested  in  his  trade 
and  brought  much  taste  and  skill  to  bear  on  it,  he  was  interested 
in  so  many  things  outside  it  that  he  was  apt  to  neglect  his  busi- 
ness for  them.  When  he  did  attend  to  his  business  he  was 
chiefly  engaged  in  perfecting  technical  devices,  and  he  would 
lose  his  head  over  new  reproduction  processes,  which,  in  spite 
of  their  ingenuity,  hardly  ever  succeeded,  and  always  cost  him 
a  great  deal  of  money.  He  was  a  voracious  reader,  and  was 


378  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

always  hard  on  the  heels  of  every  new  idea  in  philosophy,  art, 
science,  and  politics:  he  had  an  amazing  knack  of  finding  out 
men  of  originality  and  independence  of  character:  it  was  as 
though  he  answered  to  their  magnetism.  He  was  a  sort  of  con- 
necting-link between  Olivier's  friends,  who  were  all  as  isolated 
as  himself,  and  all  working  in  their  several  directions.  He 
used  to  go  from  one  to  the  other,  and  through  him  there  was 
established  between  them  a  complete  circuit  of  ideas,  though 
neither  he  nor  they  had  any  notion  of  it. 

When  Olivier  first  proposed  to  introduce  him  to  Christophe, 
Christophe  refused :  he  was  sick  of  his  experiences  with  the  tribe 
of  Israel.  Olivier  laughed  and  insisted  on  it,  saying  that  he 
knew  no  more  of  the  Jews  than  he  did  of  France.  At  last 
Christophe  consented,  but  when  he  saw  Taddee  Mooch  he  made 
a  face.  In  appearance  Mooch  was  extraordinarily  Jewish:  he 
was  the  Jew  as  he  is  drawn  by  those  who  dislike  the  race :  short, 
bald,  badly  built,  with  a  greasy  nose  and  heavy  eyes  goggling 
behind  large  spectacles :  his  face  was  hidden  by  a  rough,  black, 
scrubby  beard :  he  had  hairy  hands,  long  arms,  and  short  bandy 
legs :  a  little  Syrian  Baal.  But  he  had  such  a  kindly  expression 
that  Christophe  was  touched  by  it.  Above  all,  he  was  very 
simple,  and  never  talked  too  much.  He  never  paid  exaggerated 
compliments,  but  just  dropped  the  right  word,  pat.  He  was 
vejy  eager  to  be  of  service,  and  before  any  kindness  was  asked 
of  him  it  would  be  done.  He  came  often,  too  often;  and  he 
almost  always  brought  good  news:  work  for  one  or  other  of 
them,  a  commission  for  an  article  or  a  lecture  for  Olivier,  or 
music-lessons  for  Christophe.  He  never  stayed  long.  It  was  a 
sort  of  affectation  with  him  never  to  intrude.  Perhaps  he  saw 
Christophe's  irritation,  for  his  first  impulse  was  always  towards 
an  ejaculation  of  impatience  when  he  saw  the  bearded  face  of  the 
Carthaginian  idol, —  (he  used  to  call  him  "Moloch") — appear 
round  the  door :  but  the  next  moment  it  would  be  gone,  and  he 
would  feel  nothing  but  gratitude  for  his  perfect  kindness. 

Kindness  is  not  a  rare  quality  with  the  Jews:  of  all  the 
virtues  it  is  the  most  readily  admitted  among  them;  even  when 


THE  HOUSE  379 

they  do  not  practise  it.  Indeed,  in  most  of  them  it  remains 
negative  or  neutral :  indulgence,  indifference,  dislike  for  hurting 
anybody,  ironic  tolerance.  With  Mooch  it  was  an  active  passion. 
He  was  always  ready  to  devote  himself  to  some  cause  or  person : 
to  his  poor  co-religionists,  to  the  Eussian  refugees,  to  the  op- 
pressed of  every  nation,  to  unfortunate  artists,  to  the  allevia- 
tion of  every  kind  of  misfortune,  to  every  generous  cause.  His 
purse  was  always  open :  and  however  thinly  lined  it  might  be, 
he  could  always  manage  to  squeeze  a  mite  out  of  it:  when  it 
was  empty  he  would  squeeze  the  mite  out  of  some  one  else's 
purse :  if  he  could  do  any  one  a  service  no  pains  were  too  great 
for  him  to  take,  no  distance  was  too  far  for  him  to  go.  He  did 
it  simply — with  exaggerated  simplicity.  He  was  a  little  apt  to 
talk  too  much  about  his  simplicity  and  sincerity:  but  the  great 
thing  was  that  he  was  both  simple  and  sincere. 

Christophe  was  torn  between  irritation  and  sympathy  with 
Mooch,  and  one  day  he  said  an  innocently  cruel  thing,  though 
he  said  it  with  the  air  of  a  spoiled  child.     Mooch's  kindness  had 
touched  him,  and  he  took  his  hands  affectionately  and  said : 
"  What  a  pity !   .    .    .     What  a  pity  it  is  that  you  are  a  Jew !  " 
Olivier  started  and  blushed,  as  \though  the  shaft  had  been 
leveled  at  himself.    He  was  most  unhappy,  and  tried  to  heal  the 
wound  his  friend  had  dealt. 

Mooch  smiled,  with  sad  irony,  and  replied  calmly: 
"  It  is  an  even  greater  misfortune  to  be  a  man." 
To  Christophe  the  remark  was  nothing  but  the  whim  of  a 
moment.  But  its  pessimism  cut  deeper  than  he  imagined:  and 
Olivier,  with  his  subtle  perception,  felt  it  intuitively.  Beneath 
the  Mooch  of  their  acquaintance  there  was  another  different 
Mooch,  who  was  in  many  ways  exactly  the  opposite.  His  ap- 
parent nature  was  the  result  of  a  long  struggle  with  his  real 
nature.  Though  he  was  apparently  so  simple  he  had  a  dis- 
torted mind :  when  he  gave  way  to  it  he  was  forced  to  complicate 
simple  things  and  to  endow  his  most  genuine  feelings  with  a 
deliberately  ironical  character.  Though  he  was  apparently 
modest  and,  if  anything,  too  humble,  at  heart  he  was  proud, 


380  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

and  knew  it,  and  strove  desperately  to  whip  it  out  of  himself. 
His  smiling  optimism,  his  incessant  activity,  his  perpetual  busi- 
ness in  helping  others,  were  the  mask  of  a  profound  nihilism,  a 
deadly  despondency  which  dared  not  see  itself  face  to  face. 
Mooch  made  a  show  of  immense  faith  in  all  sorts  of  things:  in 
the  progress  of  humanity,  in  the  future  of  the  pure  Jewish  spirit, 
in  the  destiny  of  France,  the  soldier  of  the  new  spirit — (he  was 
apt  to  identify  the  three  causes).  Olivier  was  not  taken  in  by 
it,  and  used  to  say  to  Christophe : 

"  At  heart  he  believes  in  nothing." 

With  all  his  ironical  common  sense  and  calmness  Mooch  was 
a  neurasthenic  who  dared  not  look  upon  the  void  within  himself. 
He  had  terrible  moments  when  he  felt  his  nothingness:  some- 
times he  would  wake  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
screaming  with  terror.  And  he  would  cast  about  for  things 
to  do,  like  a  drowning  man  clinging  to  a  life-buoy. 

It  is  a  costly  privilege  to  be  a  member  of  a  race  which  is  ex- 
ceeding old.  It  means  the  bearing  of  a  frightful  burden  of  the 
past,  trials  and  tribulations,  weary  experience,  disillusion  of 
mind  and  heart, — all  the  ferment  of  immemorial  life,  at  the 
bottom  of  which  is  a  bitter  deposit  of  irony  and  boredom.  .  .  . 
Boredom,  the  immense  boredom  of  the  Semites,  which  has 
nothing  in  common  with  our  Aryan  boredom,  though  that,  too, 
makes  us  suffer;  while  it  is  at  least  traceable  to  definite  causes, 
and  vanishes  when  those  causes  cease  to  exist :  for  in  most  cases 
it  is  only  the  result  of  regret  that  we  cannot  have  what  we  want. 
But  in  some  of  the  Jews  the  very  source  of  joy  and  life  is  tainted 
with  a  deadly  poison.  They  have  no  desire,  no  interest  in  any- 
thing: no  ambition,  no  love,  no  pleasure.  Only  one  thing  con- 
tinues to  exist,  not  intact,  but  morbid  and  fine-drawn,  in  these 
men  uprooted  from  the  East,  worn  out  by  the  amount  of  energy 
they  have  had  to  give  out  for  centuries,  longing  for  quietude, 
without  having  the  power  to  attain  it :  thought,  endless  analysis, 
which  forbids  the  possibility  of  enjoyment,  and  leaves  them  no 
courage  for  action.  The  most  energetic  among  them  set  them- 
selves parts  to  play,  and  play  them,  rather  than  act  on  their 


THE  HOUSE  381 

own  account.  It  is  a  strange  thing  that  in  many  of  them — 
and  not  in  the  least  intelligent  or  the  least  seriously  minded — • 
this  lack  of  interest  in  life  prompts  the  impulse,  or  the  un- 
avowed  desire,  to  act  a  part,  to  play  at  life, — the  only  means 
they  know  of  living ! 

Mooch  was  an  actor  after  his  fashion.  He  rushed  about  to 
try  to  deaden  his  senses.  But  whereas  most  people  only  bestir 
themselves  for  selfish  reasons,  he  was  restlessly  active  in  pro- 
curing the  happiness  of  others.  His  devotion  to  Christophe  was 
both  touching  and  a  bore.  Christophe  would  snub  'him  and 
then  immediately  be  sorry  for  it.  But  Mooch  never  bore  him 
any  ill-will.  Nothing  abashed  him.  Not  that  he  had  any 
ardent  affection  for  Christophe.  It  was  devotion  that  he  loved 
rather  than  the  men  to  whom  he  devoted  himself.  They  were 
only  an  excuse  for  doing  good,  for  living. 

He  labored  to  such  effect  that  he  managed  to  induce  Hecht  to 
publish  Christophe's  David  and  some  other  compositions.  Hecht 
appreciated  Christophe's  talent,  but  he  was  in  no  hurry  to 
reveal  it  to  the  world.  It  was  not  until  he  saw  that  Mooch 
was  on  the  point  of  arranging  the  publication  at  his  own  ex- 
pense with  another  firm  that  he  took  the  initiative  out  of  vanity. 

And  on  another  occasion,  when  things  were  very  serious  and 
Olivier  was  ill  and  they  had  no  money,  Mooch  thought  of  going 
to  Felix  Weil,  the  rich  archeologist,  who  lived  in  the  same 
house.  Mooch  and  Weil  were  acquainted,  but  had  little  sym- 
pathy with  one  another.  They  were  too  different :  Mooch's  rest- 
lessness and  mysticism  and  revolutionary  ideas  and  "  vulgar " 
manners,  which,  perhaps,  he  exaggerated,  were  an  incentive  to 
the  irony  of  Felix  Weil,  with  his  calm,  mocking  temper,  his  dis- 
tinguished manners  and  conservative  mind.  They  had  only  one 
thing  in  common:  they  were  both  equally  lacking  in  any  pro- 
found interest  in  action:  and  if  they  did  indulge  in  action,  it 
was  not  from  faith,  but  from  their  tenacious  and  mechanical 
vitality.  But  neither  was  prepared  to  admit  it:  they  preferred 
to  give  their  minds  to  the  parts  they  were  playing,  and  their 
different  parts  had  very  little  in  common.  And  so  Mooch  was 


382  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

quite  coldly  received  by  Weil :  when  he  tried  to  interest  him  in 
the  artistic  projects  of  Olivier  and  Christophe,  he  was  brought 
up  sharp  against  a  mocking  skepticism.  Mooch's  perpetual  em- 
barkations for  one  Utopia  or  another  were  a  standing  joke  in 
Jewish  society,  where  he  was  regarded  as  a  dangerous  visionary. 
But  on  this  occasion,  as  on  so  many  others,  he  was  not  put  out : 
and  he  went  on  speaking  about  the  friendship  of  Christophe 
and  Olivier  until  he  roused  Weil's  interest.  He  saw  that  and 
went  on. 

He  had  touched  a  responsive  chord.  The  friendless  solitary 
old  man  worshiped  friendship:  the  one  great  love  of  his  life 
had  been  a  friendship  which  he  had  left  behind  him :  it  was  his 
inward  treasure:  when  he  thought  of  it  he  felt  a  better  man. 
He  had  founded  institutions  in  his  friend's  name,  and  had 
dedicated  his  books  to  his  memory.  He  was  touched  by  what 
Mooch  told  him  of  the  mutual  tenderness  of  Christophe  and 
Olivier.  His  own  story  had  been  something  like  it.  His  lost 
friend  had  been  a  sort  of  elder  brother  to  him,  a  comrade  of 
youth,  a  guide  whom  he  had  idolized.  That  friend  had  been 
one  of  those  young  Jews,  burning  with  intelligence  and  gener- 
ous ardor,  who  suffer  from  the  hardness  of  their  surroundings, 
and  set  themselves  to  uplift  their  race,  and,  through  their  race, 
the  world,  and  burn  hotly  into  flame,  and,  like  a  torch  of  resin, 
flare  for  a  few  hours  and  then  die.  The  flame  of  his  life  had 
kindled  the  apathy  of  young  Weil.  He  had  raised  him  from 
the  earth.  While  his  friend  was  alive  Weil  had  marched  by 
his  side  in  the  shining  light  of  his  stoical  faith, — faith  in 
science,  in  the  power  of  the  spirit,  in  a  future  happiness, — the 
rays  of  which  were  shed  upon  everything  with  which  that  mes- 
sianic soul  came  in  contact.  When  he  was  left  alone,  in  his 
weakness  and  irony,  Weil  fell  from  the  heights  of  that  idealism 
into  the  sands  of  that  Book  of  Ecclesiastes,  which  exists  in  the 
mind  of  every  Jew  and  saps  his  spiritual  vitality.  But  he  had 
never  forgotten  the  hours  spent  in  the  light  with  his  friend: 
jealously  he  guarded  its  clarity,  now  almost  entirely  faded. 
He  had  never  spoken  of  him  to  a  soul,  not  even  to  his  wife, 


THE  HOUSE  383 

whom  he  loved:  it  was  a  sacred  thing.  And  the  old  man,  who 
was  considered  prosaic  and  dry  of  heart,  and  nearing  the  end 
of  his  life,  used  to  say  to  himself  the  bitter  and  tender  words  of 
a  Brahmin  of  ancient  India : 

"  The  poisoned  tree  of  the  world  puts  forth  two  fruits  sweeter 
than  the  waters  of  the  fountain  of  life:  one  is  poetry,  the  other, 
friendship." 

From  that  time  on  he  took  an  interest  in  Christophe  and 
Olivier.  He  knew  how  proud  they  were,  and  got  Mooch,  with- 
out saying  anything,  to  send  him  Olivier's  volume  of  poems, 
which  had  just  been  published:  and,  without  the  two  friends 
having  anything  to  do  with  it,  without  their  having  even  the 
smallest  idea  of  what  he  was  up  to,  he  managed  to  get  the 
Academy  to  award  the  book  a  prize,  which  came  in  the  nick 
of  time  to  help  them  in  their  difficulty. 

When  Christophe  discovered  thaksuch  unlooked-for  assistance 
came  from  a  man  of  whom  he  was  inclined  to  think  ill,  he  re- 
gretted all  the  unkind  things  he  had  said  or  thought  of  him: 
he  gulped  down  his  dislike  of  calling,  and  went  and  thanked 
him.  His  good  intentions  met  with  no  reward.  Old  Weil's 
irony  was  excited  by  Christophe's  young  enthusiasm,  although 
he  tried  hard  to  conceal  it  from  him,  and  they  did  not  get  on  at 
all  well. 

That  very  day,  when  Christophe  returned,  irritated,  though 
still  grateful,  to  his  attic,  after  his  interview  with  Weil,  he 
found  Mooch  there,  doing  Olivier  some  fresh  act  of  service, 
and  also  a  review  containing  a  disparaging  article  on  his  music 
by  Lucien  Levy-Cceur; — it  was  not  written  in  a  vein  of  frank 
criticism,  but  took  the  insultingly  kindly  line  of  chaffing  him 
and  banteringly  considering  him  alongside  certain  third-rate  and 
fourth-rate  musicians  whom  he  loathed. 

"  You  see,"  said  Christophe  to  Olivier,  after  Mooch  had 
gone,  "we  always  have  to  deal  with  Jews,  nothing  but  Jews! 
Perhaps  we're  Jews  ourselves?  Do  tell  me  that  we're  not. 
We  seem  to  attract  them.  We're  always  knocking  up  against 
them,  both  friends  and  foes." 


384  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"  The  reason  is,"  said  Olivier,  "  that  they  are  more  intelligent 
than  the  rest.  The  Jews  are  almost  the  only  people  in  France 
to  whom  a  free  man  can  talk  of  new  and  vital  things.  The  rest 
are  stuck  fast  in  the  past  among  dead  things.  Unfortunately 
the  past  does  not  exist  for  the  Jews,  or  at  least  it  is  not  the 
same  for  them  as  for  us.  With  them  we  can  only  talk  about  the 
things  of  to-day:  with  our  fellow-countrymen  we  can  only  dis- 
cuss the  things  of  yesterday.  Look  at  the  activity  of  the  Jews 
in  every  kind  of  way:  commerce,  industry,  education,  science, 
philanthropy,  art.  ..." 

"  Don't  let's  talk  about  art,"  said  Christophe. 

"  I  don't  say  that  I  am  always  in  sympathy  with  what  they 
do:  very  often  I  detest  it.  But  at  least  they  are  alive,  and  can 
understand  men  who  are  alive.  It  is  all  very  well  for  us  to 
criticise  and  make  fun  of  the  Jews,  and  speak  ill  of  them.  We 
can't  do  without  them." 

"  Don't  exaggerate,"  said  Christophe  jokingly.  "  I  could  do 
without  them  perfectly." 

"You  might  go  on  living  perhaps.  But  what  good  would 
that  be  to  you  if  your  life  and  your  work  remained  unknown, 
as  they  probably  would  without  the  Jews?  Would  the  mem- 
bers of  your  own  religion  come  to  your  assistance?  The  Cath- 
olic Church  lets  the  best  of  its  members  perish  without  raising 
a  hand  to  help  them.  Men  who  are  religious  from  the  very 
bottom  of  their  hearts,  men  who  give  their  lives  in  the  defense 
of  God, — if  they  have  dared  to  break  away  from  Catholic  do- 
minion and  shake  off  the  authority  of  Rome, — at  once  find  the 
unworthy  mob  who  call  themselves  Catholic  not  only  indifferent, 
but  hostile:  they  condemn  them  to  silence,  and  abandon  them 
to  the  mercy  of  the  common  enemy.  If  a  man  of  independent 
spirit,  be  he  never  so  great  and  Christian  at  heart,  is  not  a 
Christian  as  a  matter  of  obedience,  it  is  nothing  to  the  Catholics 
that  in  him  is  incarnate  all  that  is  most  pure  and  most  truly 
divine  in  their  faith.  He  is  not  of  the  pack,  the  blind  and  deaf 
sect  which  refuses  to  think  for  itself.  He  is  cast  out,  and  the 
rest  rejoice  to  see  him  suffering  alone,  torn  to  pieces  by  the 


THE  HOUSE  385 

enemy,  and  crying  for  help  to  those  who  are  his  brothers,  for 
whose  faith  he  is  done  to  death.  In  the  Catholicism  of  to-day 
there  is  a  horrible,  death-dealing  power  of  inertia.  It  would 
find  it  far  easier  to  forgive  its  enemies  than  those  who  wish  to 
awake  it  and  restore  it  to  life.  .  .  .  My  dear  Christophe, 
where  should  we  be,  and  what  should  we  do — we,  who  are 
Catholics  by  birth,  we,  who  have  shaken  free,  without  the  little 
band  of  free  Protestants  and  Jews?  The  Jews  in  Europe  of 
to-day  are  the  most  active  and  living  agents  of  good  and  evil. 
They  carry  hither  and  thither  the  pollen  of  thought.  Have  not 
your  worst  enemies  and  your  friends  from  the  very  beginning 
been  Jews  ? " 

"  That's  true,"  said  Christophe.  "  They  have  given  me  en- 
couragement and  help,  and  said  things  to  me  which  have  given 
me  new  life  for  the  struggle,  by  showing  me  that  I  was  under- 
stood. No  doubt  very  few  of  my  friends  have  remained  faith- 
ful to  me :  their  friendship  was  but  a  fire  of  straw.  No  matter ! 
That  fleeting  light  is  a  great  thing  in  darkness.  You  are  right : 
we  mustn't  be  ungrateful." 

"  We  must  not  be  stupid,  either,"  replied  Olivier.  "  We  must 
not  mutilate  our  already  diseased  civilization  by  lopping  off 
some  of  its  most  living  branches.  If  we  were  so  unfortunate  as 
to  have  the  Jews  driven  from  Europe,  we  should  be  left  so  poor 
in  intelligence  and  power  for  action  that  we  should  be  in  danger 
of  utter  bankruptcy.  In  France  especially,  in  the  present  con- 
dition of  French  vitality,  their  expulsion  would  mean  a  more 
deadly  drain  on  the  blood  of  the  nation  than  the  expulsion  of 
the  Protestants  in  the  seventeenth  century. — No  doubt,  for  the 
time  being,  they  do  occupy  a  position  out  of  all  proportion  to 
their  true  merit.  They  do  take  advantage  of  the  present  moral 
and  political  anarchy,  which  in  no  small  degree  they  help  to 
aggravate,  because  it  suits  them,  and  because  it  is  natural  to 
them  to  do  so.  The  best  of  them,  like  our  friend  Mooch,  make 
the  mistake,  in  all  sincerity,  of  identifying  the  destiny  of  France 
with  their  Jewish  dreams,  which  are  often  more  dangerous  than 
useful.  But  you  can't  blame  them  for  wanting  to  build  France 


386  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

in  their  own  image:  it  means  that  they  love  the  country.  If 
their  love  becomes  a  public  danger,  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  de- 
fend ourselves  and  keep  them  in  their  place,  which,  in  France, 
is  the  second.  Not  that  I  think  their  race  inferior  to  ours: — 
(all  these  questions  of  the  supremacy  of  races  are  idiotic  and  dis- 
gusting).— But  we  cannot  admit  that  a  foreign  race  which  has 
not  yet  been  fused  into  our  own,  can  possibly  know  better  than 
we  do  what  suits  us.  The  Jews  are  well  off  in  France:  I  am 
glad  of  it:  but  they  must  not  think  of  turning  France  into 
Judea!  An  intelligent  and  strong  Government  which  was  able 
to  keep  the  Jews  in  their  place  would  make  them  one  of  the 
most  useful  instruments  for  the  building  of  the  greatness  of 
France:  and  it  would  be  doing  both  them  and  us  a  great 
service.  These  hypernervous,  restless,  and  unsettled  creatures 
need  the  restraint  of  law  and  the  firm  hand  of  a  just  master,  in 
whom  there  is  no  weakness,  to  curb  them.  The  Jews  are  like 
women:  admirable  when  they  are  reined  in;  but,  with  the  Jews 
as  with  women,  their  use  of  mastery  is  an  abomination,  and 
those  who  submit  to  it  present  a  pitiful  and  absurd  spectacle." 

In  spite  of  their  love  for  each  other,  and  the  intuitive  knowl- 
edge that  came  with  it,  there  were  many  things  which  Christophe 
and  Olivier  could  not  understand  in  each  other,  things,  too, 
which  shocked  them.  In  the  beginning  of  their  friendship, 
when  each  tried  instinctively  only  to  suffer  the  existence  of 
those  qualities  in  himself  which  were  most  like  the  qualities 
of  his  friend,  they  never  remarked  them.  It  was  only  gradu- 
ally that  the  different  aspects  of  their  two  nationalities  appeared 
on  the  surface  again,  more  sharply  defined  than  before:  for 
being  in  contrast,  each  showed  the  other  up.  There  were  mo- 
ments of  difficulty,  moments  when  they  clashed,  which,  with  all 
their  fond  indulgence,  they  could  not  altogether  avoid. 

Sometimes  they  misunderstood  each  other.  Olivier's  mind 
was  a  mixture  of  faith,  liberty,  passion,  irony,  and  universal 
doubt,  for  which  Christophe  could  not  find  any  working  formula. 

Olivier,  on  his  part,  was  distressed  by  Christophers  lack  of 


THE  HOUSE  387 

psychology:  being  of  an  old  intellectual  stock,  and  therefore 
aristocratic,  he  was  moved  to  smile  at  the  awkwardness  of  such 
a  vigorous,  though  lumbering  and  single  mind,  which  had  no 
power  of  self-analysis,  and  was  always  being  taken  in  by  others 
and  by  itself.  Christophe's  sentimentality,  his  noisy  outbursts, 
his  facile  emotions,  used  sometimes  to  exasperate  Olivier,  to 
whom  they  seemed  absurd.  Not  to  speak  of  a  certain  worship 
of  force,  the  German  conviction  of  the  excellence  of  fist-moral- 
ity, Faustreclit,  to  which  Olivier  and  his  countrymen  had  good 
reason  for  not  subscribing. 

And  Christophe  could  not  bear  Olivier's  irony,  which  used 
sometimes  to  make  him  furious  with  exasperation :  he  could  not 
bear  his  mania  for  arguing,  his  perpetual  analysis,  and  the 
curious  intellectual  immorality,  which  was  surprising  in  a  man 
who  set  so  much  store  by  moral  purity  as  Olivier,  and  arose  from 
the  very  breadth  of  his  mind,  to  which  every  kind  of  negation 
was  detestable, — so  that  he  took  a  delight  in  the  contemplation 
of  ideas  the  opposite  of  his  own.  Olivier's  outlook  on  things 
was  in  some  sort  historical  and  panoramic:  it  was  so  necessary 
for  him  to  understand  everything  that  he  always  saw  reasons 
both  for  and  against,  and  supported  each  in  turn,  according  as 
the  opposite  thesis  was  put  forward :  and  so  amid  such  contradic- 
tions he  lost  his  way.  He  would  leave  Christophe  hopelessly 
perplexed.  It  was  not  that  he  had  any  desire  to  contradict  or 
any  taste  for  paradox:  it  was  an  imperious  need  in  him  for 
justice  and  common  sense:  he  was  exasperated  by  the  stupidity 
of  any  assumption,  and  he  had  to  react  against  it.  The  crude- 
ness  with  which  Christophe  judged  immoral  men  and  actions, 
by  seeing  everything  as  much  coarser  and  more  brutal  than  it 
really  was,  distressed  Olivier,  who  was  just  as  moral,  but  was 
not  of  the  same  unbending  steel;  he  allowed  himself  to  be 
tempted,  colored,  and  molded  by  outside  influences.  He  would 
protest  against  Christophe's  exaggerations  and  fly  off  into  ex- 
aggeration in  the  opposite  direction.  Almost  every  day  this 
perverseness  of  mind  would  make  him  take  up  the  cudgels  for 
his  adversaries  against  his  friends.  Christophe  would  lose  his 


388  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

temper.  He  would  cry  out  upon  Olivier's  sophistry  and  his  in- 
dulgence of  hateful  things  and  people.  Olivier  would  smile :  he 
knew  the  utter  absence  of  illusion  that  lay  behind  his  indulgence : 
he  knew  that  Christophe  believed  in  many  more  things  than 
he  did,  and  had  a  greater  power  of  acceptance !  But  Chris- 
tophe would  look  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  the  left,  but 
went  straight  ahead.  He  was  especially  angry  with  Parisian 
"  kindness." 

"Their  great  argument,  of  which  they  are  so  proud,  in 
favor  of  'pardoning'  rascals,  is,"  he  would  say,  "that  all 
rascals  are  sufficiently  unhappy  in  their  wickedness,  or  that  they 
are  irresponsible  or  diseased.  ...  In  the  first  place,  it  is 
not  true  that  those  who  do  evil  are  unhappy.  That's  a.  moral 
idea  in  action,  a  silly  melodramatic  idea,  stupid,  empty 
optimism,  such  as  you  find  in  Scribe  and  Capus, —  (Scribe  and 
Capus,  your  Parisian  great  men,  artists  of  whom  your  pleasure- 
seeking,  vulgar  society  is  worthy,  childish  hypocrites,  too 
cowardly  to  face  their  own  ugliness). — It  is  quite  possible  for  a 
rascal  to  be  a  happy  man.  He  has  every  chance  of  being  so. 
And  as  for  his  irresponsibility,  that  is  an  idiotic  idea.  Do 
have  the  courage  to  face  the  fact  that  Nature  does  not  care  a 
rap  about  good  and  evil,  and  is  so  far  malevolent  that  a  man  may 
easily  be  a  criminal  and  yet  perfectly  sound  in  mind  and  body. 
Virtue  is  not  a  natural  thing.  It  is  the  work  of  man.  It  is 
his  duty  to  defend  it.  Human  society  has  been  built  up  by  a 
few  men  who  were  stronger  and  greater  than  the  rest.  It  is 
their  duty  to  see  that  the  work  of  so  many  ages  of  frightful 
struggles  is  not  spoiled  by  the  cowardly  rabble." 

At  bottom  there  was  no  great  difference  between  these  ideas 
and  Olivier's:  but,  by  a  secret  instinct  for  balance  and  propor- 
tion, he  was  never  so  dilettante  as  when  he  heard  provocative 
words  thrown  out. 

"  Don't  get  so  excited,  my  friend,"  he  would  say  to  Chris- 
tophe. "  Let  the  world  hug  its  vices.  Like  the  friends  in  the 
'  Decameron/  let  us  breathe  in  peace  the  balmy  air  of  the 
gardens  of  thought,  while  under  the  cypress-hill  and  the  tall, 


THE  HOUSE  389 

shady  pines,  twined  about  with  roses,  Florence  is  devastated  by 
the  black  plague." 

He  would  amuse  himself  for  days  together  by  pulling  to 
pieces  art,  science,  philosophy,  to  find  their  hidden  wheels:  so 
he  came  by  a  sort  of  Pyrrhonism,  in  which  everything  that  was 
became  only  a  figment  of  the  mind,  a  castle  in  the  air,  which  had 
not  even  the  excuse  of  the  geometric  symbols,  of  being  necessary 
to  the  mind.  Christophe  would  rage  against  his  pulling  the 
machine  to  pieces : 

"It  was  going  quite  well:  you'll  probably  break  it.  Then 
how  will  you  be  better  off?  What  are  you  trying  to  prove? 
That  nothing  is  nothing?  Good  Lord!  I  know  that.  It  is 
because  nothingness  creeps  in  upcTmrs  from  every  side  that  we 
fight.  Nothing  exists?  I  exist.  There's  no  reason  for  doing 
anything?  I'm  doing  what  I  can.  If  people  like  death,  let 
them  die !  For  my  part,  I'm  alive,  and  I'm  going  to  live.  My 
life  is  in  one  scale  of  the  balance,  my  mind  and  thought  in  the 
other.  ...  To  hell  with  thought!" 

He  would  fly  off  with  his  usual  violence,  and  in  their  argu- 
ment he  would  say  things  that  hurt.  Hardly  had  he  said  them 
than  he  was  sorry.  He  would  long  to  withdraw  them:  but  the 
harm  was  done.  Olivier  was  very  sensitive :  his  skin  was  easily 
barked:  a  harsh  word,  especially  if  it  came  from  some  one  he 
loved,  hurt  him  terribly.  He  was  too  proud  to  say  anything, 
and  would  retire  into  himself.  And  he  would  see  in  his  friend 
those  sudden  flashes  of  unconscious  egoism  which  appear  in  every 
great  artist.  Sometimes  he  would  feel  that  his  life  was  no  great 
thing  to  Christophe  compared  with  a  beautiful  piece  of  music : — 
(Christophe  hardly  troubled  to  disguise  the  fact). — He  would 
understand  and  see  that  Christophe  was  right:  but  it  made 
him  sad. 

And  then  there  were  in  Christophe's  nature  all  sorts  of  dis- 
ordered elements  which  eluded  Olivier  and  made  him  uneasy. 
He  used  to  have  sudden  fits  of  a  freakish  and  terrible  humor. 
For  days  together  he  would  not  speak :  or  he  would  break  out  in 
diabolically  malicious  moods  and  try  deliberately  to  hurt. 


390  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

Sometimes  he  would  disappear  altogether  and  be  seen  no  more 
for  the  rest  of  the  day  and  part  of  the  night.  Once  he  stayed 
away  for  two  whole  days.  God  knows  what  he  was  up  to !  He 
was  not  very  clear  about  it  himself.  .  .  .  The  truth  was  that 
his  powerful  nature,  shut  up  in  that  narrow  life,  and  those  small 
rooms,  as  in  a  hen-coop,  every  now  and  then  reached  bursting- 
point.  His  friend's  calmness  maddened  him:  then  he  would 
long  to  hurt  him,  to  hurt  some  one.  He  would  have  to  rush 
away,  and  wear  himself  out.  He  would  go  striding  through 
the  streets  of  Paris  and  the  outskirts  in  the  vague  quest  of  ad- 
venture, which  sometimes  he  found:  and  he  would  not  have 
been  sorry  to  meet  with  some  rough  encounter  which  would 
have  given  him  the  opportunity  of  expending  some  of  his  super- 
fluous energy  in  a  brawl.  ...  It  was  hard  for  Olivier,  with 
his  poor  health  and  weakness  of  body,  to  understand.  Chris- 
tophe  was  not  much  nearer  understanding  it.  He  would  wake 
up  from  his  aberrations  as  from  an  exhausting  dream, — a  little 
uneasy  and  ashamed  of  what  he  had  been  doing  and  might  yet 
do.  But  when  the  fit  of  madness  was  over  he  would  feel  like  a 
great  sky  washed  by  the  storm,  purged  of  every  taint,  serene, 
and  sovereign  of  his  soul.  He  would  be  more  tender  than  ever 
with  Olivier,  and  bitterly  sorry  for  having  hurt  him.  He  would 
give  up  trying  to  account  for  their  little  quarrels.  The  wrong 
was  not  always  on  his  side :  but  he  would  take  all  the  blame  upon 
himself,  and  put  it  down  to  his  unjust  passion  for  being  right; 
and  he  would  think  it  better  to  be  wrong  with  his  friend  than  to 
be  right,  if  right  were  not  on  his  side. 

Their  misunderstandings  were  especially  grievous  when  they 
occurred  in  the  evening,  so  that  the  two  friends  had  to  spend 
the  night  in  disunion,  which  meant  that  both  of  them  were 
morally  upset.  Christophe  would  get  up  and  scribble  a  note 
and  slip  it  under  Olivier's  door:  and  next  day  as  soon  as  he 
woke  up  he  would  beg  his  pardon.  Sometimes,  even,  he  would 
knock  at  his  door  in  the  middle  of  the  night:  he  could  not 
bear  to  wait  for  the  day  to  come  before  he  humbled  himself. 
As  a  rule,  Olivier  would  be  just  as  unable  to  sleep.  He  knew 


THE  HOUSE  391 

that  Christophe  loved  him,  and  had  not  wished  to  hurt  him :  but 
he  wanted  to  hear  him  say  so.  Christophe  would  say  so,  and 
then  the  whole  thing  would  be  forgotten.  Then  they  would  be 
pacified.  Delightful  state !  How  well  they  would  sleep  for  the 
rest  of  the  night ! 

"  Ah !  "  Olivier  would  sigh.  "  How  difficult  it  is  to  under- 
stand each  other ! " 

"  But  is  it  necessary  always  to  understand  each  other  ? " 
Christophe  would  ask.  "  I  give  it  up.  We  only  need  love  each 
other." 

All  these  petty  quarrels  which,  with  anxious  tenderness,  they 
would  at  once  find  ways  of  mending^made  them  almost  dearer 
to  each  other  than  before.  When  they  were  hotly  arguing  An- 
toinette would  appear  in  Olivier's  eyes.  The  two  friends  would 
pay  each  other  womanish  attentions.  Christophe  never  let 
Olivier's  birthday  go  by  without  celebrating  it  by  dedicating  a 
composition  to  him,  or  by  the  gift  of  flowers,  or  a  cake,  or  a 
little  present,  bought  Heaven  knows  how! — (for  they  often  had 
no  money  in  the  house) — Olivier  would  tire  his  eyes  out  with 
copying  out  Christophe's  scores  at  night  and  by  stealth. 

Misunderstandings  between  friends  are  never  very  serious  so 
long  as  a  third  party  does  not  come  between  them. — But  that 
was  bound  to  happen :  there  are  too  many  people  in  this  world 
ready  to  meddle  in  the  affairs  of  others  and  make  mischief  be- 
tween them. 

Olivier  knew  the  Stevens,  whom  Christophe  rarely  visited, 
and  he  too  had  been  attracted  by  Colette.  The  reason  why 
Christophe  had  not  met  him  in  the  girl's  little  court  was  that 
just  at  that  time  Olivier  was  suffering  from  his  sister's  death, 
and  had  shut  himself  up  with  his  grief  and  saw  no  one.  Colette, 
on  her  part,  did  not  go  out  of  her  way  to  see  him:  she  liked 
Olivier,  but  she  did  not  like  unhappy  people:  she  used  to  de- 
clare that  she  was  so  sensitive  that  she  could  not  bear  the  sight 
of  sorrow :  she  waited  until  Olivier's  sorrow  was  over  before  she 
remembered  his  existence.  When  she  heard  that  he  seemed  to 


392  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

be  himself  again,  and  that  there  was  no  danger  of  infection,  she 
made  bold  to  beckon  him  to  her.  Olivier  did  not  need  much 
inducement  to  go.  He  was  shy  but  he  liked  society,  and  he 
was  easily  led:  and  he  had  a  weakness  for  Colette.  When  he 
told  Christophe  of  his  intention  of  going  back  to  her,  Chris- 
tophe,  who  had  too  much  respect  for  his  friend's  liberty  to 
express  any  adverse  opinion,  just  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
said  jokingly : 

"  Go,  dear  boy,  if  it  amuses  you." 

But  nothing  would  have  induced  him  to  follow  his  example. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  a 
coquette  like  Colette  or  the  world  she  lived  in.  Not  that  he  was 
a  misogynist:  far  from  it.  He  had  a  very  tender  feeling  for 
all  the  young  women  who  worked  for  their  living,  the  factory- 
hands,  and  typists,  and  Government  clerks,  who  are  to  be  seen 
every  morning,  half  awake,  always  a  little  late,  hurrying  to  their 
workshops  and  offices.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  woman  was 
only  in  possession  of  all  her  senses  when  she  was  working  and 
struggling  for  her  own  individual  existence,  by  earning  her  daily 
bread  and  her  independence.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  only 
then  did  she  possess  all  her  charm,  her  alert  suppleness  of  move- 
ment, the  awakening  of  all  her  senses,  her  integrity  of  life  and 
will.  He  detested  the  idle,  pleasure-seeking  woman,  who  seemed 
to  him  to  be  only  an  overfed  animal,  perpetually  in  the  act  of 
digestion,  bored,  browsing  over  unwholesome  dreams.  Olivier, 
on  the  contrary,  adored  the  far  niente  of  women,  their  charm, 
like  the  charm  of  flowers,  living  only  to  be  beautiful  and  to 
perfume  the  air  about  them.  He  was  more  of  an  artist :  Chris- 
tophe was  more  human.  Unlike  Colette,  Christophe  loved  other 
people  in  proportion  as  they  shared  in  the  suffering  of  the  world. 
So,  between  him  and  them  there  was  a  bond  of  brotherly  com- 
passion. 

Colette  was  particularly  anxious  to  see  Olivier  again,  after 
she  heard  of  his  friendship  with  Christophe:  for  she  was  curi- 
ous to  hear  the  details.  She  was  rather  angry  with  Christophe 
for  the  disdainful  manner  in  which  he  seemed  to  have  for- 


THE  HOUSE  393 

gotten  her:  and,  though  she  had  no  desire  for  revenge, — (it  was 
not  worth  the  trouble :  and  revenge  does  mean  a  certain  amount 
of  trouble), — she  would  have  been  very  glad  to  pay  him  out. 
She  was  like  a  cat  that  bites  the  hand  that  strokes  it.  She  had 
an  ingratiating  way  with  her,  and  she  had  no  difficulty  in  get- 
ting Olivier  to  talk.  Nobody  could  be  more  clear-sighted  than 
he,  or  less  easily  taken  in  by  people,  when  he  was  away  from 
them :  but  nobody  could  be  more  naively  confiding  than  he  when 
he  was  with  a  woman  whose  eyes  smiled  kindly  at  him.  Colette 
displayed  so  genuine  an  interest  in  his  friendship  with  Chris- 
tophe  that  he  went  so  far  as  to  tell  her  the  whole  story,  and 
even  about  certain  of  their  amicable  misunderstandings,  which, 
at  a  distance,  seemed  amusing,  and  he  took  the  whole  blame  for 
them  on  himself.  He  also  confided  to  Colette  Christophe's 
artistic  projects,  and  also  some  of  his  opinions — which  were  not 
altogether  flattering — concerning  France  and  the  French. 
Nothing  that  he  told  her  was  of  any  great  importance  in  it- 
self, but  Colette  repeated  it  all  at  once,  and  adapted  it  partly 
to  make  the  story  more  spicy,  and  partly  to  satisfy  her  secret 
feeling  of  malice  against  Christophe.  And  as  the  first  person  to 
receive  her  confidence  was  naturally  her  inseparable  Lucien 
Levy-Cceur,  who  had  no  reason  for  keeping  it  secret,  the  story 
went  the  rounds,  and  was  embellished  by  the  way:  a  note  of 
ironic  pity  for  Olivier,  who  was  represented  as  a  victim,  was 
introduced,  and  he  cut  rather  a  sorry  figure.  It  seemed  unlikely 
that  the  story  could  be  very  interesting  to  anybody,  since  the 
heroes  of  it  were  very  little  known :  but  a  Parisian  takes  an  in- 
terest in  everything  that  does  not  concern  him.  So  much  so, 
that  one  day  Christophe  heard  the  story  from  the  lips  of  Madame 
Eoussin.  She  met  him  one  day  at  a  concert,  and  asked  him  if 
it  were  true  that  he  had  quarreled  with  that  poor  Olivier 
Jeannin:  and  she  asked  about  his  work,  and  alluded  to  things 
which  he  believed  were  known  only  to  himself  and  Olivier. 
And  when  he  asked  her  how  she  had  come  by  her  information, 
she  said  she  had  had  it  from  Lucien  Levy-Cosur,  who  had  had 
it  direct  from  Olivier. 


394  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

The  blow  overwhelmed  Christophe.  Violent  and  uncritical 
as  he  was,  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  think  how  utterly  fan- 
tastic the  story  was:  he  only  saw  one  thing:  his  secrets  which 
he  had  confided  to  Olivier  had  been  betrayed — betrayed  to 
Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  He  could  not  stay  to  the  end  of  the  con- 
cert: he  left  the  hall  at  once.  Around  him  all  was  blank  and 
dark.  In  the  street  he  narrowly  escaped  being  run  over.  He 
said  to  himself  over  and  over  again :  "  My  friend  has  betrayed 
me!  .  .  ." 

Olivier  was  with  Colette.  Christophe  locked  the  door  of 
his  room,  so  that  when  Olivier  came  in  he  could  not  have  his 
usual  talk  with  him.  He  heard  him  come  in  a  few  moments 
later  and  try  to  open  the  door,  and  whisper  "  Good-night " 
through  the  keyhole :  he  did  not  stir.  He  was  sitting  on  his  bed 
in  the  dark,  holding  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  saying  over  and 
over  again :  "  My  friend  has  betrayed  me !  .  .  . " :  and  he 
stayed  like  that  half  through  the  night  Then  he  felt  how  dearly 
he  loved  Olivier:  for  he  was  not  angry  with  him  for  having 
betrayed  him :  he  only  suffered.  Those  whom  we  love  have  ab- 
solute rights  over  us,  even  the  right  to  cease  loving  us.  We 
cannot  bear  them  any  ill-will;  we  can  only  be  angry  with  our- 
selves for  being  so  unworthy  of  love  that  it  must  desert  us. 
There  is  mortal  anguish  in  such  a  state  of  mind — anguish  which 
destroys  the  will  to  live. 

Next  morning,  when  he  saw  Olivier,  he  did  not  tell  him  any- 
thing :  he  so  detested  the  idea  of  reproaching  him, — reproaching 
him  for  having  abused  his  confidence  and  flung  his  secrets  into 
the  enemy's  maw, — that  he  could  not  find  a  single  word  to  say 
to  him.  But  his  face  said  what  he  could  not  speak:  his  ex- 
pression was  icy  and  hostile.  Olivier  was  struck  dumb :  he  could 
not  understand  it.  He  tried  timidly  to  discover  what  Chris- 
tophe had  against  him.  Christopne  turned  away  from  him 
brutally,  and  made  no  reply.  Olivier  was  hurt  in  his  turn,  and 
said  no  more,  and  gulped  down  his  distress  in  silence.  They  did 
not  see  each  other  again  that  day. 

Even  if  Olivier  had  made  him  suffer  a  thousand  times  more, 


THE  HOUSE  395 

Christophe  would  never  have  done  anything  to  avenge  himself, 
and  he  would  have  done  hardly  anything  to  defend  himself: 
Olivier  was  sacred  to  him.  But  it  was  necessary  that  the  in- 
dignation he  felt  should  be  expended  upon  some  one :  and  since 
that  some  one  could  not  be  Olivier,  it  was  Lucien  Levy-Cceur. 
With  his  usual  passionate  injustice  he  put  upon  him  the  re- 
sponsibility for  the  ill-doing  which  he  attributed  to  Olivier: 
and  he  suffered  intolerable  pangs  of  jealousy  in  the  thought 
that  such  a  man  as  that  could  have  robbed  him  of  his  friend's 
affection,  just  as  he  had  previously^eusted  him  from  his  friend- 
ship with  Colette  Stevens.  To  bring  his  exasperation  to  a  head, 
that  very  day  he  happened  to  see  an  article  by  Lucien  Levy- 
Cceur  on  a  performance  of  Fidelio.  In  it  he  spoke  of  Beethoven 
in  a  bantering  way,  and  poked  fun  at  his  heroine.  Christophe 
was  as  alive  as  anybody  to  the  absurdities  of  the  opera,  and  even 
to  certain  mistakes  in  the  music.  He  had  not  always  dis- 
played an  exaggerated  respect  for  the  acknowledged  master  him- 
self. But  he  set  no  store  by  always  agreeing  with  his  own 
opinions,  nor  had  he  any  desire  to  be  Frenchily  logical.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  who  are  quite  ready  to  admit  the  faults 
of  their  friends,  but  cannot  bear  anybody  else  to  do  so.  And, 
besides,  it  was  one  thing  to  criticise  a  great  artist,  however  bit- 
terly, from  a  passionate  faith  in  art,  and  even — (one  may  say) — 
from  an  uncompromising  love  for  his  fame  and  intolerance  of 
anything  mediocre  in  his  work, — and  another  thing,  as  Lucien 
Levy-Cceur  did,  only  to  use  such  criticism  to  flatter  the  base- 
ness of  the  public,  and  to  make  the  gallery  laugh,  by  an  exhibi- 
tion of  wit  at  the  expense  of  a  great  man.  Again,  free  though 
Christophe  was  in  his  judgments,  there  had  always  been  a  cer- 
tain sort  of  music  which  he  had  tacitly  left  alone  and  shielded : 
music  which  was  not  to  be  tampered  with:  that  music,  which 
was  higher  and  better  than  music,  the  music  of  an  absolutely 
pure  soul,  a  great  health-giving  soul,  to  which  a  man  could  turn 
for  consolation,  strength,  and  hope.  Beethoven's  music  was  in 
the  category.  To  see  a  puppy  like  Levy-Cceur  insulting 
Beethoven  made  him  blind  with  anger.  It  was  no  longer  a 


396  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

question  of  art,  but  a  question  of  honor;  everything  that  makes 
life  rare,  love,  heroism,  passionate  virtue,  the  good  human 
longing  for  self-sacrifice,  was  at  stake.  The  Godhead  itself  was 
imperiled!  There  was  no  room  for  argument.  It  is  as  im- 
possible to  suffer  that  to  be  besmirched  as  to  hear  the  woman 
you  respect  and  love  insulted:  there  is  but  one  thing  to  do,  to 
hate  and  kill.  .  .  .  What  is  there  to  say  when  the  insulting 
blackguard  was,  of  all  men,  the  one  whom  Christophe  most 
despised  ? 

And,  as  luck  would  have  it,  that  very  evening  the  two  men 
came  face  to  face. 

To  avoid  being  left  alone  with  Olivier,  contrary  to  his  habit, 
Christophe  went  to  an  At  Home  at  the  Roussins'.  He  was  asked 
to  play.  He  consented  unwillingly.  However,  after  a  moment 
or  two  he  became  absorbed  in  the  music  he  was  playing,  until, 
glancing  up,  he  saw  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  standing  in  a  little 
group,  watching  him  with  an  ironical  stare.  He  stopped  short 
in  the  middle  of  a  bar:  he  got  up  and  turned  away  from  the 
.piano.  There  was  an  awkward  silence.  Madame  Roussin  came 
up  to  Christophe  in  her  surprise  and  smiled  forcedly ;  and,  very 
cautiously, — for  she  was  not  sure  whether  the  piece  was  finished 
or  not, — she  asked  him : 

"  Won't  you  go  on,  Monsieur  Krafft  ?  " 

"  I've  finished,"  he  replied  curtly. 

He  had  hardly  said  it  than  he  became  conscious  of  his  rude- 
ness: but,  instead  of  making  him  more  restrained,  it  only  ex- 
cited him  the  more.  He  paid  no  heed  to  the  amused  attention 
of  his  auditors,  but  went  and  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  room  from 
which  he  could  follow  Lucien  Levy-Cceur's  movements.  His 
neighbor,  an  old  general,  with  a  pinkish,  sleepy  face,  light-blue 
eyes,  and  a  childish  expression,  thought  it  incumbent  on  him 
to  compliment  him  on  the  originality  of  his  music.  Christophe 
bowed  irritably,  and  growled  out  a  few  inarticulate  sounds.  The 
general  went  on  talking  with  effusive  politeness  and  a  gentle, 
meaningless  smile :  and  he  wanted  Christophe  to  explain  how  he 


THE  HOUSE  397 

could  play  such  a  long  piece  of  music  from  memory.  Christophe 
fidgeted  impatiently,  and  thought  wildly  of  knocking  the  old  gen- 
tleman off  the  sofa.  He  wanted  to  hear  what  Lucien  Levy-Cceur 
was  saying:  he  was  waiting  for  an  excuse  for  attacking  him. 
For  some  moments  past  he  had  been  conscious  that  he  was  going 
to  make  a  fool  of  himself:  but  no  power  on  earth  could  have 
kept  him  from  it. — Lucien  Levy-Cceur,  in  his  high  falsetto 
voice,  was  explaining  the  aims  and^seeret  thoughts  of  great 
artists  to  a  circle  of  ladies.  During  a  moment  of  silence  Chris- 
tophe heard  him  talking  about  the  friendship  of  Wagner  and 
King  Ludwig,  with  all  sorts  of  nasty  innuendoes. 

"  Stop ! "  he  shouted,  bringing  his  fist  down  on  the  table  by 
his  side. 

Everybody  turned  in  amazement.  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  met 
Christophe's  eyes  and  paled  a  little,  and  said : 

"  Were  you  speaking  to  me?" 

"  You  hound !   .    .    .     Yes,"  said  Christophe. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  You  soil  and  sully  everything  that  is  great  in  the  world," 
he  went  on  furiously.  "  There's  the  door !  Get  out,  you  cur, 
or  I'll  fling  you  through  the  window !  " 

He  moved  towards  him.  The  ladies  moved  aside  screaming. 
There  was  a  moment  of  general  confusion.  Christophe  was 
surrounded  at  once.  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  had  half  risen  to  his 
feet:  then  he  resumed  his  careless  attitude  in  his  chair.  He 
called  a  servant  who  was  passing  and  gave  him  a  card:  and  he 
went  on  with  his  remarks  as  though  nothing  had  happened :  but 
his  eyelids  were  twitching  nervously,  and  his  eyes  blinked  as  he 
looked  this  way  and  that  to  see  how  people  had  taken  it.  Rous- 
sin  had  taken  his  stand  in  front  of  Christophe,  and  he  took  him 
by  the  lapel  of  his  coat  and  urged  him  in  the  direction  of  the 
door.  Christophe  hung  his  head  in  his  anger  and  shame,  and 
his  eyes  saw  nothing  but  the  wide  expanse  of  shirt-front,  and 
kept  on  counting  the  diamond  studs:  and  he  could  feel  the  big 
man's  breath  on  his  cheek. 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear  fellow !  "  said  Roussin.     "  What's  the 


398  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

matter  with  you?  Where  are  your  manners?  Control  your- 
self! Do  you  know  where  you  are?  Come,  come,  are  you 
mad?" 

"  I'm  damned  if  I  ever  set  foot  in  your  house  again ! "  said 
Christophe,  breaking  free :  and  he  reached  the  door. 

The  people  prudently  made  way  for  him.  In  the  cloak-room 
a  servant  held  out  a  salver.  It  contained  Lucien  Levy-Cceur's 
card.  He  took  it  without  understanding  what  it  meant,  and 
read  it  aloud:  then,  suddenly,  snorting  with  rage,  he  fumbled 
in  his  pockets :  mixed  up  with  a  varied  assortment  of  things,  he 
pulled  out  three  or  four  crumpled  dirty  cards : 

"  There !  There ! "  he  said,  flinging  them  on  the  salver  so 
violently  that  one  of  them  fell  to  the  ground. 

He  left  the  house. 

Olivier  knew  nothing  about  it.  Christophe  chose  as  his  wit- 
nesses the  first  men  of  his  acquaintance  who  turned  up,  the 
musical  critic,  Theophile  Goujart,  and  a  German,  Doctor  Barth, 
an  honorary  lecturer  in  a  Swiss  University,  whom  he  had  met 
one  night  in  a  cafe ;  he  had  made  friends  with  him,  though  they 
had  little  in  common:  but  they  could  talk  to  each  other  about 
Germany.  After  conferring  with  Lucien  Levy-Cceur's  wit- 
nesses, pistols  were  chosen.  Christophe  was  absolutely  ignorant 
about  the  use  of  arms,  and  Goujart  told  him  it  would  not  be  a 
bad  thing  for  him  to  go  and  have  a  few  lessons :  but  Christophe 
refused,  and  while  he  was  waiting  for  the  day  to  come  went  on 
with  his  work. 

But  his  mind  was  distracted.  He  had  a  fixed  idea,  of  which 
he  was  dimly  conscious,  while  it  kept  buzzing  in  his  head  like  a 
bad  dream.  ...  "It  was  unpleasant,  yes,  very  unpleasant. 
.  .  .  What  was  unpleasant  ? — Oh !  the  duel  to-morrow.  .  .  . 
Just  a  joke!  Nobody  is  ever  hurt.  .  .  .  But  it  was  pos- 
sible. .  .  .  Well,  then,  afterwards?  .  .  .  Afterwards,  that 
was  it,  afterwards.  ...  A  cock  of  the  finger  by  that  swine 
who  hates  me  may  wipe  out  my  life.  ...  So  be  it!  .  .  . — 
Yes,  to-morrow,  in  a  day  or  two,  I  may  be  lying  in  the  loathsome 


THE  HOUSE  399 

soil  of  Paris.  .  .  . — Bah!  Here  or  anywhere,  what  does  it 
matter !  .  .  .  Oh !  Lord :  I'm  not  going  to  play  the  coward ! — 
No,  but  it  would  be  monstrous  to  waste  the  mighty  world  of 
ideas  that  I  feel  springing  to  life  in  me  for  a  moment's  folly. 
.  .  .  What  rot  it  is,  these  modern  duels  in  which  they  try  to 
equalize  the  chances  of  the  two  opponents/!  That's  a  fine  sort 
of  equality  that  sets  the  same  value  on4he  life  of  a  mountebank 
as  on  mine !  Why  don't  they  let  us  go  for  each  other  with  fists 
and  cudgels  ?  There'd  be  some  pleasure  in  that.  But  this  cold- 
blooded shooting!  .  .  .  And,  of  course,  he  knows  how  to 
shoot,  and  I  have  never  had  a  pistol  in  my  hand.  .  .  .  They 
are  right:  I  must  learn.  .  .  .  He'll  try  to  kill  me.  I'll  kill 
him." 

He  went  out.  There  was  a  range  a  few  yards  away  from 
the  house.  Christophe  asked  for  a  pistol,  and  had  it  explained 
how  he  ought  to  hold  it.  With  his  first  shot  he  almost  killed 
his  instructor :  he  went  on  with  a  second  and  a  third,  and  fared 
no  better :  he  lost  patience,  and  went  from  bad  to  worse.  A  few 
young  men  were  standing  by  watching  and  laughing.  He  paid  no 
heed  to  them.  With  his  German  persistency  he  went  on  trying, 
and  was  so  indifferent  to  their  laughter  and  so  determined  to 
succeed  that,  as  always  happens,  his  blundering  patience  roused 
interest,  and  one  of  the  spectators  gave  him  advice.  In  spite  of 
his  usual  violence  he  listened  to  everything  with  childlike  docil- 
ity; he  managed  to  control  his  nerves,  which  were  making  his 
hand  tremble :  he  stiffened  himself  and  knit  his  brows :  the 
sweat  was  pouring  down  his  cheeks:  he  said  not  a  word:  but 
every  now  and  then  he  would  give  way  to  a  gust  of  anger,  and 
then  go  on  shooting.  He  stayed  there  for  a  couple  of  hours. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  he  hit  the  bull's-eye.  Few  things  could 
have  been  more  absorbing  than  the  sight  of  such  a  power  of  will 
mastering  an  awkward  and  rebellious  body.  It  inspired  re- 
spect. Some  of  those  who  had  scoffed  at  the  outset  had  gone, 
and  the  others  were  silenced  one  by  one,  and  had  not  been  able 
to  tear  themselves  away.  They  took  off  their  hats  to  Chris- 
tophe when  he  went  away. 


400  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

When  he  reached  home  Christophe  found  his  friend  Mooch 
waiting  anxiously.  Mooch  had  heard  of  the  quarrel,  and  had 
come  at  once:  he  wanted  to  know  how  it  had  originated.  In 
spite  of  Christophe's  reticence  and  desire  not  to  attach  any 
blame  to  Olivier,  he  guessed  the  reason.  He  was  very  cool- 
headed,  and  knew  both  the  friends,  and  had  no  doubt  of  Olivier's 
innocence  of  the  treachery  ascribed  to  him.  He  looked  into  the 
matter,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  out  that  the  whole 
trouble  arose  from  the  scandal-mongering  of  Colette  and  Lucien 
Levy-Cceur.  He  rushed  back  with  his  evidence  to  Christophe, 
thinking  that  he  could  in  that  way  prevent  the  duel.  But  the 
result  was  exactly  the  opposite  of  what  he  expected:  Chris- 
tophe was  only  the  more  rancorous  against  Levy-Coeur  when  he 
learned  that  it  was  through  him  that  he  had  come  to  doubt  his 
friend.  To  get  rid  of  Mooch,  who  kept  on  imploring  him  not 
to  fight,  he  promised  him  everything  he  asked.  But  he  had 
made  up  his  mind.  He  was  quite  happy  now:  he  was  going  to 
fight  for  Olivier,  not  for  himself! 

A  remark  made  by  one  of  the  seconds  as  the  carriage  was 
going  along  a  road  through  the  woods  suddenly  caught  Chris- 
tophe's attention.  He  tried  to  find  out  what  they  were  think- 
ing, and  saw  how  little  they  really  cared  about  him.  Professor 
Barth  was  wondering  when  the  affair  would  be  over,  and  whether 
he  would  be  back  in  time  to  finish  a  piece  of  work  he  had  be- 
gun on  the  manuscripts  in  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale.  Of 
Christophe's  three  companions,  he  was  the  most  interested  in  the 
result  of  the  encounter  as  a  matter  of  German  national  pride. 
Goujart  paid  no  attention  either  to  Christophe  or  the  other  Ger- 
man, but  discussed  certain  scabrous  subjects  in  connection  with 
the  coarser  branches  of  physiology  with  Dr.  Jullien,  a  young 
physician  from  Toulouse,  who  had  recently  come  to  live  next 
door  to  Christophe,  and  occasionally  borrowed  his  spirit-lamp, 
or  his  umbrella,  or  his  coffee-cups,  which  he  invariably  returned 
broken.  In  return  he  gave  him  free  consultations,  tried  medi- 
cines on  him,  and  laughed  at  his  simplicity.  Under  his  im- 
passive manner,  that  would  have  well  become  a  Castilian  hidalgo, 


THE  HOUSE  401 

there  was  a  perpetual  love  of  teasing.  He  was  highly  delighted 
with  the  adventure  of  the  duel,  which  struck  him  as  sheer 
burlesque :  and  he  was  amusing  himself  with  fancying  the  mess 
that  Christophe  would  make  of  it.  He  thought  it  a  great  joke 
to  be  driving  through  the  woods  at  the  expense  of  good  old 
Kraff t. — That,  clearly,  was  what  was  in  the  minds  of  the  trio : 
they  regarded  it  as  a  jolly  excursion  which  cost  them  nothing. 
Not  one  of  them  attached  the  least  importance  to  the  duel.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  they  were  just  as  calmly  prepared  for  any- 
thing that  might  come  of  it. 

They  reached  the  appointed  spot  before  the  others.  It  was  a 
little  inn  in  the  heart  of  the  forest.  It  was  a  pleasure-resort, 
more  or  less  unclean,  to  which  Parisians  used  to  resort  to  cleanse 
their  honor  when  the  dirt  on  it  became  too  apparent.  The 
hedges  were  bright  with  the  pure  flowers  of  the  eglantine.  In 
the  shade  of  the  bronze-leaved  oak-trees  there  were  rows  of  little 
tables.  At  one  of  these  tables  were  seated  three  bicyclists:  a 
painted  woman,  in  knickerbockers,  with  black  socks:  and  two 
men  in  flannels,  who  were  stupefied  by  the  heat,  and  every  now 
and  then  gave  out  growls  and  grunts  as  though  they  had  for- 
gotten how  to  speak. 

The  arrival  of  the  carriage  produced  a  little  buzz  of  excite- 
ment in  the  inn.  Goujart,  who  knew  the  house  and  the  people 
of  old,  declared  that  he  would  look  after  everything.  Barth 
dragged  Christophe  into  an  arbor  and  ordered  beer.  The  air 
was  deliciously  warm  and  soft,  and  resounding  with  the  buzzing 
of  bees.  Christophe  forgot  why  he  had  come.  Barth  emptied 
the  bottle,  and  said,  after  a  short  silence: 

"  I  know  what  I'll  do." 

He  drank  and  went  on: 

"  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time :  I'll  go  on  to  Versailles  when 
it's  all  over." 

Goujart  was  heard  haggling  with  the  landlady  over  the  price 
of  the  dueling-ground.  Jullien  had  not  been  wasting  his  time: 
as  he  passed  near  the  bicyclists  he  broke  into  noisy  and  ecstatic 
comment  on  the  woman's  bare  legs :  and  there  was  exchanged  a 


402  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

perfect  deluge  of  filthy  epithets  in  which  Jullien  did  not  come  off 
worst.  Earth  said  in  a  whisper: 

"The  French  are  a  low-minded  lot.  Brother,  I  drink  to 
your  victory." 

He  clinked  his  glass  against  Christophe's.  Christophe  was 
dreaming:  scraps  of  music  were  floating  in  his  mind,  mingled 
with  the  harmonious  humming  of  insects.  He  was  very  sleepy. 

The  wheels  of  another  carriage  crunched  over  the  gravel  of 
the  drive.  Christophe  saw  Lucien  Levy-Cceur's  pale  face,  with 
its  inevitable  smile:  and  his  anger  leaped  up  in  him.  He  got 
up,  and  Barth  followed  him. 

Levy-Cceur,  with  his  neck  swathed  in  a  high  stock,  was 
dressed  with  a  scrupulous  care  which  was  strikingly  in  contrast 
with  his  adversary's  untidiness.  He  was  followed  by  Count 
Bloch,  a  sportsman  well  known  for  his  mistresses,  his  collec- 
tion of  old  pyxes,  and  his  ultra-Royalist  opinions, — Leon  Mouey, 
another  man  of  fashion,  who  had  reached  his  position  as  Deputy 
through  literature,  and  was  a  writer  from  political  ambition :  he 
was  young,  bald,  clean-shaven,  with  a  lean  bilious  face:  he  had 
a  long  nose,  round  eyes,  and  a  head  like  a  bird's, — and  Dr.  Em- 
manuel, a  fine  type  of  Semite,  well-meaning  and  cold,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Academy  of  Medicine,  a  chief-surgeon  in  a  hospital, 
famous  for  a  number  of  scientific  books,  and  the  medical  skep- 
ticism which  made  him  listen  with  ironic  pity  to  the  plaints 
of  his  patients  without  making  the  least  attempt  to  cure 
them. 

The  newcomers  saluted  the  other  three  courteously.  Chris- 
tophe barely  responded,  but  was  annoyed  by  the  eagerness  and 
the  exaggerated  politeness  with  which  they  treated  Levy-Cceur's 
seconds.  Jullien  knew  Emmanuel,  and  Goujart  knew  Mouey, 
and  they  approached  them  obsequiously  smiling.  Mouey 
greeted  them  with  cold  politeness  and  Emmanuel  jocularly  and 
without  ceremony.  As  for  Count  Bloch,  he  stayed  by  Levy- 
Cceur,  and  with  a  rapid  glance  he  took  in  the  condition  of  the 
clothes  and  linen  of  the  three  men  of  the  opposing  camp,  and, 
hardly  opening  his  lips,  passed  abrupt  humorous  comment  oft 


THE  HOUSE  403 

them  with  his  friend, — and  both  of  them  stood  calm  and 
correct. 

Lucien  Levy-Cceur  stood  at  his  ease  waiting  for  Count  Bloch, 
who  had  the  ordering  of  the  duel,  to  give  the  signal.  He 
regarded  the  affair  as  a  mere  formality.  He  was  an  excellent 
shot,  and  was  fully  aware  of  his  adversary's  want  of  skill.  He 
would  not  be  foolish  enough  to  make  use  of  his  advantage  and 
hit  him,  always  supposing,  as  was  not  very  ;probable,  that  the 
seconds  did  not  take  good  care  that  no  harm  came  of  the  en- 
counter: for  he  knew  that  nothing  is  so  stupid  as  to  let  an 
enemy  appear  to  be  a  victim,  when  a  much  surer  and  better 
method  is  to  wipe  him  out  of  existence  without  any  fuss  being 
made.  But  Christophe  stood  waiting,  stripped  to  his  shirt 
which  was  open  to  reveal  his  thick  neck,  while  his  sleeves  were 
rolled  up  to  show  his  strong  wrists,  head  down,  with  his  eyes 
glaring  at  Levy-Cceur:  he  stood  taut,  with  murder  written  im- 
placably on  every  feature:  and  Count  Bloch,  who  watched  him 
carefully,  thought  what  a  good  thing  it  was  that  civilization 
had  as  far  as  possible  suppressed  the  risks  of  fighting. 

After  both  men  had  fired,  of  course  without  result,  the  sec- 
onds hurried  forward  and  congratulated  the  adversaries.  Honor 
was  satisfied. — Not  so  Christophe.  He  stayed  there,  pistol  in 
hand,  unable  to  believe  that  it  was  all  over.  He  was  quite 
ready  to  repeat  his  performance  at  the  range  the  evening  before, 
and  go  on  shooting  until  one  or  other  of  them  had  hit  the 
target.  When  he  heard  Goujart  proposing  that  he  should  shake 
hands  with  his  adversary,  who  advanced  chivalrously  towards 
him  with  his  perpetual  smile,  he  was  exasperated  by  the  pretense 
of  the  whole  thing.  Angrily  he  hurled  his  pistol  away,  pushed 
Goujart  aside,  and  flung  himself  upon  Lucien  Levy-Cceur. 
They  were  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  him  from  going  on  with  the 
fight  with  his  fists. 

The  seconds  intervened  while  Levy-Cceur  escaped.  Chris- 
tophe broke  away  from  them,  and,  without  listening  to  their 
laughing  expostulation,  he  strode  along  in  the  direction  of  the 
forest,  talking  loudly  and  gesticulating  wildly.  He  cUci  not 


404  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

even  notice  that  he  had  left  his  hat  and  coat  on  the  dueling- 
ground.  He  plunged  into  the  woods.  He  heard  his  seconds 
laughing  and  calling  him:  then  they  tired  of  it,  and  did  not 
worry  about  him  any  more.  Very  soon  he  heard  the  wheels 
of  the  carriages  rumbling  away  and  away,  and  knew  that  they 
had  gone.  He  was  left  alone  among  the  silent  trees.  His  fury 
had  subsided.  He  flung  himself  down  on  the  ground  and 
sprawled  on  the  grass. 

Shortly  afterwards  Mooch  arrived  at  the  inn.  He  had  been 
pursuing  Christophe  since  the  early  morning.  He  was  told 
that  his  friend  was  in  the  woods,  and  went  to  look  for  him. 
He  beat  all  the  thickets,  and  awoke  all  the  echoes,  and  was 
going  away  in  despair  when  he  heard  him  singing:  he  found 
his  way  by  the  voice,  and  at  last  came  upon  him  in  a  little 
clearing  with  his  arms  and  legs  in  the  air,  rolling  about  like 
a  young  calf.  When  Christophe  saw  him  he  shouted  merrily, 
called  him  "  dear  old  Moloch,"  and  told  him  how  he  had  shot 
his  adversary  full  of  holes  until  he  was  like  a  sieve:  he  made 
him  tuck  in  his  tuppenny,  and  then  join  him  in  a  game  of 
leap-frog :  and  when  he  jumped  over  him  he  gave  him  a  terrific 
thump.  Mooch  was  not  very  good  at  it,  but  he  enjoyed  the 
game  almost  as  much  as  Christophe. — They  returned  to  the  inn 
arm-in-arm,  and  caught  the  train  back  to  Paris  at  the  nearest 
station. 

Olivier  knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened.  He  was  sur- 
prised at  Christophe's  tenderness:  he  could  not  understand  his 
sudden  change.  It  was  not  until  the  next  day,  when  he  saw  the 
newspapers,  that  he  knew  that  Christophe  had  fought  a  duel. 
It  made  him  almost  ill  to  think  of  the  danger  that  Chris- 
tophe had  run.  He  wanted  to  know  why  the  duel  had  been 
fought.  Christophe  refused  to  tell  him  anything.  When  he 
was  pressed  he  said  with  a  laugh: 

"It  was  for  you." 

Olivier  could  not  get  a  word  more  out  of  him.  Mooch  told 
him  all  about  it.  Olivier  was  horrified,  quarreled  with  Colette, 
and  begged  Christophe  to  forgive  his  imprudence,  Christophe 


THE  HOUSE  405 

was  incorrigible,  and  quoted  for  his  benefit  an   old   French 
saying,  which  he  adapted  so  as  to  infuriate  poor  Mooch,  who 
was  present  to  share  in  the  happiness  of  the  friends: 
"  My  dear  boy,  let  this  teach  you  to  be  careful.   .    .    . 

"  From  an  idle  chattering  girl,       I 
From  a  wheedling,  hypocritical  Jew, 
From  a  painted  friend, 
From  a  familiar  foe, 
And  from  flat  wine, 
Libera  Nos,  Domine!" 

Their  friendship  was  re-established.  The  danger  of  losing 
it,  which  had  come  so  near,  made  it  only  the  more  dear.  Their 
small  misunderstandings  had  vanished :  the  very  differences  be- 
tween them  made  them  more  attractive  to  each  other.  In  his 
own  soul  Christophe  embraced  the  souls  of  the  two  countries, 
harmoniously  united.  He  felt  that  his  heart  was  rich  and 
full:  and,  as  usual  with  him,  his  abundant  happiness  expressed 
itself  in  a  flow  of  music. 

Olivier  marveled  at  it.  Being  too  critical  in  mind,  he  was 
never  far  from  believing  that  music,  which  he  adored,  had 
said  its  last  word.  He  was  haunted  by  the  morbid  idea  that 
decadence  must  inevitably  succeed  a  certain  degree  of  progress: 
and  he  trembled  lest  the  lovely  art,  which  made  him  love  life, 
should  stop  short,  and  dry  up,  and  disappear  into  the  ground. 
Christophe  would  scoff  at  such  pusillanimous  ideas.  In  a 
spirit  of  contradiction  he  would  pretend  that  nothing  had  been 
done  before  he  appeared  on  the  scene,  and  that  everything  re- 
mained to  be  done.  Olivier  would  instance  French  music, 
which  seemed  to  have  reached  a  point  of  perfection  and  ultimate 
civilization  beyond  which  there  could  not  possibly  be  anything. 
Christophe  would  shrug  his  shoulders : 

"  French  music  ?  .  .  .  There  has  never  been  any.  .  .  . 
And  yet  you  have  such  fine  things  to  do  in  the  world!  You 
can't  really  be  musicians,  or  you  would  have  discovered  that. 
Ah!  if  only  I  were  a  Frenchman!  ..." 


406  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

And  he  would  set  out  all  the  things  that  a  Frenchman  might 
turn  into  music: 

"You  involve  yourselves  in  forms  which  do  not  suit  you, 
and  you  do  nothing  at  all  with  those  which  are  admirably 
fitted  for  your  use.  You  are  a  people  of  elegance,  polite  poetry, 
beautiful  gestures,  beautiful  walking  movements,  beautiful  at- 
titudes, fashion,  clothes,  and  you  never  write  ballets  nowadays, 
though  you  ought  to  be  able  to  create  an  inimitable  art  of 
poetic  dancing.  .  .  .> — You  are  a  people  of  laughter  and 
comedy,  and  you  never  write  comic  operas,  or  else  you  leave  it  to 
minor  musicians,  the  confectioners  of  music.  Ah!  if  I  were  a 
Frenchman  I  would  set  Rabelais  to  music,  I  would  write  comic 
epics.  .  .  . — You  are  a  people  of  story-tellers,  and  you  never 
write  novels  in  music:  (for  I  don't  count  the  feuilletons  of 
Gustave  Charpentier) .  You  make  no  use  of  your  gift  of 
psychological  analysis,  your  insight  into  character.  Ah!  if  I 
were  a  Frenchman  I  would  give  you  portraits  in  music.  .  .  . 
(Would  you  like  me  to  sketch  the  girl  sitting  in  the  garden 
under  the  lilac?).  ...  I  would  write  you  Stendhal  for  a 
string  quartet.  .  .  . — You  are  the  greatest  democracy  in 
Europe,  and  you  have  no  theater  for  the  people,  no  music  for 
the  people.  Ah!  if  I  were  a  Frenchman,  I  would  set  your 
Revolution  to  music:  the  14th  July,  the  10th  August,  Valmy, 
the  Federation,  I  would  express  the  people  in  music !  Not  in 
the  false  form  of  Wagnerian  declamation.  I  want  symphonies, 
choruses,  dances.  Not  speeches!  I'm  sick  of  them.  There's 
no  reason  why  people  should  always  be  talking  in  a  music  drama ! 
Bother  the  words!  Paint  in  bold  strokes,  in  vast  symphonies 
with  choruses,  immense  landscapes  in  music,  Homeric  and 
Biblical  epics,  fire,  earth,  water,  and  sky,  all  bright  and  shining, 
the  fever  which  makes  hearts  burn,  the  stirring  of  the  instincts 
and  destinies  of  a  race,  the  triumph  of  Rhythm,  the  emperor 
of  the  world,  who  enslaves  thousands  of  men,  and  hurls  armies 
down  to  death.  .  .  .  Music  everywhere,  music  in  everything ! 
If  you  were  musicians  you  would  have  music  for  every  one  of 
your  public  holidays,  for  your  official  ceremonies,  for  the  trades 


THE  HOUSE  407 

unions,  for  the  student  associations,  for  your  family  festivals. 
.  .  .  But,  above  all,  above  all,  if  you  were  musicians,  you 
would  make  pure  music,  music  which  has  no  definite  meaning, 
music  which  has  no  definite  use,  save  only  to  give  warmth, 
and  air,  and  life.  Make  sunlight  for  yourselves !  Sat  prata. 
.  .  .  (What  is  that  in  Latin?).  .  .  .  There  has  been  rain 
enough.  Your  music  gives  me  a  cold.  One  can't  see  in  it: 
light  your  lanterns.  .  .  .  You  complain  of  the  Italian 
porcherie,  who  invade  your  theaters  and  conquer  the  public, 
and  turn  you  out  of  your  own  house?  It  is  your  own  fault! 
The  public  are  sick  of  your  crepuscular  art,  your  harmonized 
neurasthenia,  your  contrapuntal  pedantry.  The  public  goes 
where  it  can  find  life,  however  coarse  and  gross.  Why  do  you 
run  away  from  life?  Your  Debussy  is  a  bad  man,  however 
great  he  may  be  as  an  artist.  He  aids  and  abets  you  in  your 
torpor.  You  want  roughly  waking  up." 

"What  about  Strauss?" 

"  No  better.  Strauss  would  finish  you  off.  You  need  the 
digestion  of  my  fellow-countrymen  to  be  able  to  bear  such  im- 
moderate drinking.  And  even  they  cannot  bear  it.  ... 
Strauss's  Salome!  ...  A  masterpiece.  ...  I  should  not 
like  to  have  written  it.  ...  I  think  of  my  old  grand- 
father and  uncle  Gottfried,  and  with  what  respect  and  loving 
tenderness  they  used  to  talk  to  me  about  the  lovely  art  of 
sound !  .  .  .  But  to  have  the  handling  of  such  divine  powers, 
and  to  turn  them  to  such  uses!  ...  A  flaming,  consuming 
meteor!  An  Isolde,  who  is  a  Jewish  prostitute.  Bestial  and 
mournful  lust.  The  frenzy  of  murder,  pillage,  incest,  and  un- 
trammeled  instincts  which  is  stirring  in  the  depths  of  German 
decadence.  .  .  .  And,  on  the  other  hand,  the  spasm  of  a 
voluptuous  and  melancholy  suicide,  the  death-rattle  which  sounds 
through  your  French  decadence.  ...  On  the  one  hand,  the 
beast:  on  the  other,  the  prey.  Where  is  man?  .  .  .  Your 
Debussy  is  the  genius  of  good  taste:  Strauss  is  the  genius  of 
bad  taste.  Debussy  is  rather  insipid.  But  Strauss  is  very  un- 
pleasant. One  is  a  silvery  thread  of  stagnant  water,  losing  it- 


408  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

self  in  the  reeds,  and  giving  off  an  unhealthy  aroma.  The 
other  is  a  mighty  muddy  flood.  .  .  .  Ah!  the  musty  hase 
Italianism  and  neo-Meyerbeerism,  the  filthy  masses  of  senti- 
ment which  are  borne  on  by  the  torrent!  .  .  .  An  odious 
masterpiece!  .  .  .  Salome,  the  daughter  of  Ysolde.  .  .  . 
And  whose  mother  will  Salome  be  in  her  turn  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Olivier,  "  I  wish  we  could  jump  fifty  years. 
This  headlong  gallop  towards  the  precipice  must  end  one  way 
or  another:  either  the  horse  must  stop  or  fall.  Then  we  shall 
breathe  again.  Thank  Heaven,  the  earth  will  not  cease  to 
flower,  nor  the  sky  to  give  light,  with  or  without  music !  What 
have  we  to  do  with  an  art  so  inhuman!  .  .  .  The  West  is 
burning  away.  .  .  .  Soon.  .  .  .  Very  soon.  .  .  .  I  see 
other  stars  arising  in  the  furthest  depths  of  the  East." 

"Bother  the  East!"  said  Christophe.  "The  West  has  not 
said  its  last  word  yet.  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  abdicate? 
I  have  enough  to  say  to  keep  you  going  for  centuries.  Hurrah 
for  life !  Hurrah  for  joy !  Hurrah  for  the  courage  which 
drives  us  on  to  struggle  with  our  destiny!  Hurrah  for  love 
which  maketh  the  heart  big !  Hurrah  for  friendship  which  re- 
kindles our  faith, — friendship,  a  sweeter  thing  than  love ! 
Hurrah  for  the  day!  Hurrah  for  the  night!  Glory  be  to  the 
sun !  Laus  Deo,  the  God  of  joy,  the  God  of  dreams  and  actions, 
the  God  who  created  music!  Hosannah!  ..." 

With  that  he  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  wrote  down  every- 
thing that  was  in  his  head,  without  another  thought  for  what 
he  had  been  saying. 

At  that  time  Christophe  was  in  a  condition  in  which  all 
the  elements  of  his  life  were  perfectly  balanced.  He  did  not 
bother  his  head  with  esthetic  discussions  as  to  the  value  of 
this  or  that  musical  form,  nor  with  reasoned  attempts  to  create 
a  new  form :  he  did  not  even  have  to  cast  about  for  subjects  for 
translation  into  music.  One  thing  was  as  good  as  another. 
The  flood  of  music  welled  forth  without  Christophe  knowing 
exactly  what  feeling  he  was  expressing.  He  was  happy:  that 


THE  HOUSE  409 

was  all :  happy  in  expanding,  happy  in  having  expanded,  happy 
in  feeling  within  himself  the  pulse  of  universal  life. 

His  fullness  of  joy  was  communicated  to  those  about  him. 

The  house  with  its  closed  garden  was  too  small  for  him.  He 
had  the  view  out  over  the  garden  of  the  neighboring  convent 
with  the  solitude  of  its  great  avenues  and  century-old  trees: 
but  it  was  too  good  to  last.  In  front  of  Christophe's  windows 
they  were  building  a  six-story  house,  which  shut  out  the  view 
and  completely  hemmed  him  in.  In  addition,  he  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  hearing  the  creaking  of  pulleys,  the  chipping  of  stones, 
the  hammering  of  nails,  all  day  long  from  morning  to  night. 
Among  the  workmen  he  found  his  old  friend  the  slater,  whose 
acquaintance  he  had  made  on  the  roof.  They  made  signs  to 
each  other,  and  once,  when  he  met  him  in  the  street,  he  took 
the  man  to  a  wineshop,  and  they  drank  together,  much  to  the 
surprise  of  Olivier,  who  was  a  little  scandalized.  He  found  the 
man's  drollery  and  unfailing  good-humor  very  entertaining,  but 
did  not  curse  him  any  the  less,  with  his  troop  of  workmen  and 
stupid  idiots  who  were  raising  a  barricade  in  front  of  the 
house  and  robbing  him  of  air  and  light.  Olivier  did  not  com- 
plain much:  he  could  quite  easily  adapt  himself  to  a  lim- 
ited horizon:  he  was  like  the  stove  of  Descartes,  from  which 
the  suppressed  ideas  darted  upward  to  the  free  sky.  But  Chris- 
tophe  needed  more  air.  Shut  up  in  that  confined  space,  he 
avenged  himself  by  expanding  into  the  lives  of  those  about 
him.  He  drank  in  their  inmost  life,  and  turned  it  into  music. 
Olivier  used  to  tell  him  that  he  looked  like  a  lover. 

"  If  I  were  in  love,"  Christophe  would  reply,  "  I  should 
see  nothing,  love  nothing,  be  interested  in  nothing  outside  my 
love." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  then  ?  " 

"  I'm  very  well.     I'm  hungry." 

"  Lucky  Christophe ! "  Olivier  would  sigh.  "  I  wish  you 
could  hand  a  little  of  your  appetite  over  to  us." 

Health,  like  sickness,  is  contagious.  The  first  to  feel  the 
benefit  of  Christophe's  vitality  was  naturally  Olivier.  Vitality 


410  JEAtf-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

was  what  he  most  lacked.  He  retired  from  the  world  because 
its  vulgarity  revolted  him.  Brilliantly  clever  though  he  was, 
and  in  spite  of  his  exceptional  artistic  gifts,  he  was  too  delicate 
to  be  a  great  artist.  Great  artists  do  not  feel  disgust:  the  first 
law  for  every  healthy  being  is  to  live :  and  that  law  is  even  more 
imperative  for  a  man  of  genius:  for  such  a  man  lives  more. 
Olivier  fled  from  life:  he  drifted  along  in  a  world  of  poetic  fic- 
tions that  had  no  body,  no  flesh  and  blood,  no  relation  to  reality. 
He  was  one  of  those  literary  men  who,  in  quest  of  beauty,  have 
to  go  outside  time,  into  the  days  that  are  no  more,  or  the  days 
that  have  never  been.  As  though  the  wine  of  life  were  not  as 
intoxicating,  and  its  vintages  as  rich  nowadays  as  ever  they 
were!  But  men  who  are  weary  in  soul  recoil  from  direct  con- 
tact with  life:  they  can  only  bear  to  see  it  through  the  veil  of 
visions  spun  by  the  backward  movement  of  time,  and  hear  it 
in  the  echo  which  sends  back  and  distorts  the  dead  words  of 
those  who  were  once  alive. — Christophe's  friendship  gradually 
dragged  Olivier  out  of  this  Limbo  of  art.  The  sun's  rays 
pierced  through  to  the  innermost  recesses  of  his  soul  in  which  he 
was  languishing. 

Elsberger,  the  engineer,  also  succumbed  to  Christophe's  con- 
tagious optimism.  It  was  not  shown  in  any  change  in  his 
habits :  they  were  too  inveterate :  and  it  was  too  much  to  expect 
him  to  become  enterprising  enough  to  leave  France  and  go  and 
seek  his  fortune  elsewhere.  But  he  was  shaken  out  of  his 
apathy:  he  recovered  his  taste  for  research,  and  reading,  and 
the  scientific  work  which  he  had  long  neglected.  He  would 
have  been  much  astonished  had  he  been  told  that  Christophe 
had  something  to  do  with  his  new  interest  in  his  work:  and 
certainly  no  one  would  have  been  more  surprised  than 
Christophe. 

But  of  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  house,  Christophe  was  the 
soonest  intimate  with  the  little  couple  on  the  second  floor. 
More  than  once  as  he  passed  their  door  he  had  stopped  to  listen 


THE  HOUSE  411 

to  the  sound  of  the  piano  which  Madame  Arnaud  used  to  play 
quite  well  when  she  was  alone.  Then  he  gav/e  them  tickets 
for  his  concert,  for  which  they  thanked  him  jeffusively.  And 
after  that  he  used  to  go  and  sit  with  them  occasionally  in  the 
evening.  He  had  never  heard  Madame  Arnaud  playing  again: 
she  was  too  shy  to  play  in  company:  and  even  when  she  was 
alone,  now  that  she  knew  she  could  be  heard  on  the  stairs,  she 
kept  the  soft  pedal  down.  But  Christophe  used  to  play  to 
them,  and  they  would  talk  about  it  for  hours  together.  The 
Arnauds  used  to  speak  of  music  with  such  eagerness  and  fresh- 
ness of  feeling  that  he  was  enchanted  with  them.  He  had  not 
thought  it  possible  for  French  people  to  care  so  much  for 
music. 

"That,"  Olivier  would  say,  "is  because  you  have  only  come 
across  musicians." 

"I'm  perfectly  aware,"  Christophe  would  reply,  "that  pro- 
fessed musicians  are  the  very  people  who  care  least  for  music : 
but  you  can't  make  me  believe  that  there  are  many  people  like 
you  in  France." 

"  A  few  thousands  at  any  rate." 

"  I  suppose  it's  an  epidemic,  the  latest  fashion." 

"It  is  not  a  matter  of  fashion,"  said  Arnaud.  "He  who 
does  not  rejoice  to  hear  a  sweet  accord  of  instruments,  or  the 
sweetness  of  the  natural  voice,  and  is  not  moved  by  it,  and* 
does  not  tremble  from  head  to  foot  with  its  sweet  ravishment, 
and  is  not  talcen  completely  out  of  himself,  does  thereby  show 
himself  to  have  a  twisted,  vicious,  and  depraved  soul,  and  of 
such  an  one  we  should  beware  as  of  a  man  ill-born.  ..." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Christophe.  "  It  is  my  friend 
Shakespeare." 

"No,"  said  Arnaud  gently.  "It  is  a  Frenchman  who  lived 
before  him,  Ronsard.  That  will  show  you  that,  if  it  is  the 
fashion  in  France  to  care  for  music,  it  is  no  new  thing." 

But  what  astonished  Christophe  was  not  so  much  that  people 
in  France  should  care  for  music,  as  that  almost  without  excep- 
tion they  cared  for  the  same  music  as  the  people  in  Germany, 


412  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

In  the  world  of  Parisian  snobs  and  artists,  in  which  he  had 
moved  at  first,  it  had  been  the  mode  to  treat  the  German 
masters  as  distinguished  foreigners,  by  all  means  to  be  admired, 
but  to  be  kept  at  a  distance :  they  were  always  ready  to  poke  fun 
at  the  dullness  of  a  Gluck,  and  the  barbarity  of  a  Wagner: 
against  them  they  set  up  the  subtlety  of  the  French  composers. 
And  in  the  end  Christophe  had  begun  to  wonder  whether  a 
Frenchman  could  have  the  least  understanding  of  German  music, 
to  judge  by  the  way  it  was  rendered  in  France.  Only  a  short 
time  before  he  had  come  away  perfectly  scandalized  from  a  per- 
formance of  an  opera  of  Gluck's:  the  ingenious  Parisians  had 
taken  it  into  their  heads  to  deck  the  old  fellow  up,  and  cover 
him  with  ribbons,  and  pad  out  his  rhythms,  and  bedizen  his 
music  with  impressionistic  settings,  and  charming  little  dancing 
girls,  forward  and  wanton.  .  .  .  Poor  Gluck!  There  was 
nothing  left  of  his  eloquent  and  sublime  feeling,  his  moral 
purity,  his  naked  sorrow.  Was  it  that  the  French  could  not 
understand  these  things? — And  now  Christophe  could  see  how 
deeply  and  tenderly  his  new  friends  loved  the  very  inmost  qual- 
ity of  the  Germanic  spirit,  and  the  old  German  lieder,  and  the 
German  classics.  And  he  asked  them  if  it  was  not  the  fact 
that  the  great  Germans  were  as  foreigners  to  them,  and  that  a 
Frenchman  could  only  really  love  the  artists  of  his  own  na- 
tionality. 

"  Not  at  all !  "  they  protested.  "  It  is  only  the  critics  who 
take  upon  themselves  to  speak  for  us.  They  always  follow  the 
fashion,  and  they  want  us  to  follow  it  too.  But  we  don't  worry 
about  them  any  more  than  they  worry  about  us.  They're  funny 
little  people,  trying  to  teach  us  what  is  and  is  not  French — us, 
who  are  French  of  the  old  stock  of  France !  .  .  .  They  come 
and  tell  us  that  our  France  is  in  Rameau, — or  Racine, — and 
nowhere  else.  As  though  we  did  not  know, —  (and  thousands 
like  us  in  the  provinces,  and  in  Paris).  How  often  Beethoven, 
Mozart,  and  Gluck,  have  sat  with  us  by  the  fireside,  and  watched 
with  us  by  the  bedside  of  those  we  love,  and  shared  our 
troubles,  and  revived  our  hopes,  and  been  one  of  ourselves !  If 


THE  HOUSE  413 

we  dared  say  exactly  what  we  thought,  it  is  much  more  likely 
that  the  French  artists,  who  are  set  up  on  a  pedestal  by  our 
Parisian  critics,  are  strangers  among  us." 

"  The  truth  is,"  said  Olivier,  "4hat  if  there  are  frontiers  in 
art,  they  are  not  so  much  barriers  between  races  as  barriers 
between  classes.  I'm  not  so  sure  that  there  is  a  French  art  or  a 
German  art:  but  there  is  certainly  one  art  for  the  rich  and 
another  for  the  poor.  Gluck  was  a  great  man  of  the  middle- 
classes  :  he  belongs  to  our  class.  A  certain  French  artist,  whose 
name  I  won't  mention,  is  not  of  our  class :  though  he  was  of  the 
middle-class  by  birth,  he  is  ashamed  of  us,  and  denies  us:  and 
we  deny  him." 

What  Olivier  said  was  true.  The  better  Christophe  got  to 
know  the  French,  the  more  he  was  struck  by  the  resemblance 
between  the  honest  men  of  France  and  the  honest  men  of 
Germany.  The  Arnauds  reminded  him  of  dear  old  Schulz  with 
his  pure,  disinterested  love  of  art,  his  forgetfulness  of  self,  his 
devotion  to  beauty.  And  he  loved  them  in  memory  of  Schulz. 

At  the  same  time  as  he  realized  the  absurdity  of  moral 
frontiers  between  the  honest  men  of  different  nationalities, 
Christophe  began  to  see  the  absurdity  of  the  frontiers  that  lay 
between  the  different  ideas  of  honest  men  of  the  same  na- 
tionality. Thanks  to  him,  though  without  any  deliberate  ef- 
fort on  his  part,  the  Abbe  Corneille  and  M.  Watelet,  two  men 
who  seemed  very  far  indeed  from  understanding  each  other, 
made  friends. 

Christophe  used  to  borrow  books  from  both  of  them  and, 
with  a  want  of  ceremony  which  shocked  Olivier,  he  used  to  lend 
their  books  in  turn  to  the  other.  The  Abbe  Corneille  was  not 
at  all  scandalized :  he  had  an  intuitive  perception  of  the  qual- 
ity of  a  man :  and,  without  seeming  to  do  so,  he  had  marked  the 
generous  and  even  unconsciously  religious  nature  of  his  young 
neighbor.  A  book  by  Kropotkin,  which  had  been  borrowed  from 
M.  Watelet,  and  for  different  reasons  had  given  great  pleasure 
to  all  three  of  them,  began  the  process  of  bringing  them  to- 


414  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

gether.  It  chanced  one  evening  that  they  met  in  Christophe's 
room.  At  first  Christophe  was  afraid  that  they  might  be  rude  to 
each  other:  but,  on  the  contrary,  they  were  perfectly  polite. 
They  discussed  various  sage  subjects :  their  travels,  and  their  ex- 
perience of  men.  And  they  discovered  in  each  other  a  fund 
of  gentleness  and  the  spirit  of  the  Gospels,  and  chimerical 
hopes,  in  spite  of  the  many  reasons  that  each  had  for  despair. 
They  discovered  a  mutual  sympathy,  mingled  with  a  little 
irony.  Their  sympathy  was  of  a  very  discreet  nature.  They 
never  revealed  their  fundamental  beliefs.  They  rarely  met  and 
did  not  try  to  meet :  but  when  they  did  so  they  were  glad  to  see 
each  other. 

Of  the  two  men  the  Abbe  Corneille  was  not  the  least  in- 
dependent of  mind,  though  Christophe  would  never  have  thought 
it.  He  gradually  came  to  perceive  the  greatness  of  the  religious 
and  yet  free  ideas,  the  immense,  serene,  and  unfevered  mysti- 
cism which  permeated  the  priest's  whole  mind,  the  every  action 
of  his  daily  life,  and  his  whole  outlook  on  the  world, — leading 
him  to  live  in  Christ,  as  he  believed  that  Christ  had  lived  in 
God. 

He  denied  nothing,  no  single  element  of  life.  To  him  the 
whole  of  Scripture,  ancient  and  modern,  lay  and  religious,  from 
Moses  to  Berthelot,  was  certain,  divine,  the  very  expression  of 
God.  Holy  Writ  was  to  him  only  its  richest  example,  just  as  the 
Church  was  the  highest  company  of  men  united  in  the  brother- 
hood of  God:  but  in  neither  of  them  was  the  spirit  confined 
in  any  fixed,  unchanging  truth.  Christianity  was  the  living 
Christ.  The  history  of  the  world  was  only  the  history  of  the 
perpetual  advance  of  the  idea  of  God.  The  fall  of  the  Jewish 
Temple,  the  ruin  of  the  pagan  world,  the  repulse  of  the  Crusades, 
the  humiliation  of  Boniface  VIII,  Galileo  flinging  the  world 
back  into  giddy  space,  the  infinitely  little  becoming  more  mighty 
than  the  great,  the  downfall  of  kingdoms,  and  the  end  of  the 
Concordats,  all  these  for  a  time  threw  the  minds  of  men  out 
of  their  reckoning.  Some  clung  desperately  to  the  passing 
order:  some  caught  at  a  plank  and  drifted.  The  Abbe  Cor- 


THE  HOUSE  415 

neille  only  asked :  "  Where  do  we  stand  as  men  ?  Where  is  that 
which  makes  us  live  ?  "  For  he  believed :  "  Where  life  is,  there 
is  God." — And  that  was  why  he  was  in  sympathy  with  Chris- 
tophe. 

For  his  part,  Christophe  was  glad  once  more  to  hear  the 
splendid  music  of  a  great  religious  soul.  It  awoke  in  him 
echoes  distant  and  profound.  Through  the  feeling  of  perpetual 
reaction,  which  is  in  vigorous  natures  a  vital  instinct,  the  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation,  the  stroke  which  preserves  the  quiv- 
ering balance  of  the  boat,  and  gives  it  a  new  drive  onward, — 
his  surfeit  of  doubts  and  his  disgust  with  Parisian  sensuality 
had  for  the  last  two  years  been  slowly  restoring  God  to  his 
place  in  Christophe's  heart.  Not  that  he  believed  in  God.  He 
denied  God.  But  he  was  filled  with  the  spirit  of  God.  The 
Abbe  Corneille  used  to  tell  him  with  a  smile,  that  like  his 
namesake,  the  sainted  giant,  he  bore  God  on  his  shoulders  with- 
out knowing  it. 

"  How  is  it  that  I  don't  see  it  then  ?  "  Christophe  would  ask. 

"You  are  like  thousands  of  others:  you  see  God  every  day, 
and  never  know  that  it  is  He.  God  reveals  Himself  to  all,  in 
every  shape, — to  some  He  appears  in  their  daily  life,  as  He 
did  to  Saint  Peter  in  Galilee, — to  others  (like  your  friend  M. 
Watelet),  as  He  did  to  Saint  Thomas,  in  wounds  and  suffering 
that  call  for  healing, — to  you  in  the  dignity  of  your  ideal :  Noli 
me  tangere.  .  .  .  Some  day  you  will  know  it." 

"  I  will  never  surrender,"  said  Christophe.  "  I  am  free. 
Free  I  shall  remain." 

"  Only  the  more  will  you  live  in  God,"  replied  the  priest 
calmly. 

But  Christophe  would  not  submit  to  being  made  out  a 
Christian  against  his  will.  He  defended  himself  ardently  and 
simply,  as  though  it  mattered  in  the  least  whether  one  label 
more  than  another  was  plastered  on  to  his  ideas.  The  Abbe 
Corneille  would  listen  with  a  faint  ecclesiastical  irony,  that  was 
hardly  perceptible,  while  it  was  altogether  kindly.  He  had  an 
inexhaustible  fund  of  patience,  based  on  his  habit  of  faith.  It 


416  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

had  been  tempered  by  the  trials  to  which  the  existing  Church 
had  exposed  him:  while  it  had  made  him  profoundly  melan- 
choly, and  had  even  dragged  him  through  terrible  moral  crises, 
he  had  not  really  been  touched  by  it  all.  It  was  cruel  to  suffer 
the  oppression  of  his  superiors,  to  have  his  every  action  spied 
upon  by  the  Bishops,  and  watched  by  the  free-thinkers,  who 
were  endeavoring  to  exploit  his  ideas,  to  use  him  as  a  weapon 
against  his  own  faith,  and  to  be  misunderstood  and  attacked 
both  by  his  co-religionists  and  the  enemies  of  his  religion.  It 
was  impossible  for  him  to  offer  any  resistance:  for  submission 
was  enforced  upon  him.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  submit 
in  his  heart:  for  he  knew  that  the  authorities  were  wrong. 
It  was  agony  for  him  to  hold  his  peace.  It  was  agony  for  him 
to  speak  and  to  be  wrongly  interpreted.  Not  to  mention  the 
soul  for  which  he  was  responsible,  he  had  to  think  of  those, 
who  looked  to  him  for  counsel  and  help,  while  he  had  to  stand 
by  and  see  them  suffer.  .  .  .  The  Abbe  Corneille  suffered 
both  for  them  and  for  himself,  but  he  was  resigned.  He  knew 
how  small  a  thing  were  the  days  of  trial  in  the  long  history  of 
the  Church. — Only,  by  dint  of  being  turned  in  upon  himself 
in  his  silent  resignation,  slowly  he  lost  heart,  and  became 
timid  and  afraid  to  speak,  so  that  it  became  more  and  more 
difficult  for  him  to  do  anything,  and  little  by  little  the  torpor 
of  silence  crept  over  him.  Meeting  Christophe  had  given  him 
new  courage.  His  neighbor's  youthful  ardor  and  the  affec- 
tionate and  simple  interest  which  he  took  in  his  doings,  his 
sometimes  indiscreet  questions,  did  him  a  great  deal  of  good. 
Christophe  forced  him  to  mix  once  more  with  living  men  and 
women. 

Aubert,  the  Journeyman  electrician,  once  met  him  in  Chris- 
tophe's  room.  He  started  back  when  he  saw  the  priest,  and 
found  it  hard  to  conceal  his  feeling  of  dislike.  Even  when  he 
had  overcome  his  first  inclination,  he  was  uncomfortable  and 
oddly  embarrassed  at  finding  himself  in  the  company  of  a  man 
in  a  cassock,  a  creature  to  whom  he  could  attach  no  exact  defini- 
tion. However,  his  sociable  instincts  and  the  pleasure  he  al- 


THE  HOUSE  417 

ways  found  in  talking  to  educated  men  were  stronger  than  his 
anti-clericalism.  He  was  surprised  by  the  pleasant  relations 
existing  between  M.  Watelet  and  the  Abbe  Corneille :  he  was  no 
less  surprised  to  find  a  priest  who  was  a  democrat,  and  a 
revolutionary  who  was  an  aristocrat:  it  upset  all  his  pre- 
conceived ideas.  He  tried  vainly  to  classify  them  in  any 
social  category:  for  he  always  had  to  classify  people  before  he 
could  begin  to  understand  them.  It  was  not  easy  to  find  a 
pigeon-hole  for  the  peaceful  freedom  of  mind  of  a  priest  who 
had  read  Anatole  France  and  Benan,  and  was  prepared  to  dis- 
cuss them  calmly,  justly,  and  with  some  knowledge.  In  mat- 
ters of  science  the  Abbe  Corneille's  way  was  to  accept  the  guid- 
ance of  those  who  knew,  rather  than  of  those  who  laid  down 
the  law.  He  respected  authority,  but  in  his  eyes  it  stood  lower 
than  knowledge.  The  flesh,  the  spirit,  and  charity:  the  three 
orders,  the  three  rungs  of  the  divine  ladder,  the  ladder  of  Jacob. 
• — Of  course,  honest  Aubert  was  far,  indeed,  from  understand- 
ing, or  even  from  dreaming,  of  the  possibility  of  such  a  state  of 
mind.  The  Abbe  Corneille  used  to  tell  Christophe  that  Aubert 
reminded  him  of  certain  French  peasants  whom  he  had  seen  one 
day.  A  young  Englishwoman  had  asked  them  the  way,  in  Eng- 
lish. They  listened  solemnly,  but  did  not  understand.  Then 
they  spoke  in  French.  She  did  not  understand.  Then  they 
looked  at  each  other  pityingly,  and  wagged  their  heads,  and  went 
on  with  their  work,  and  said : 

"  What  a  pity !  What  a  pity !  Such  a  pretty  girl, 
too!  .  .  ." 

As  though  they  had  thought  her  deaf,  or  dumb,  or  soft  in 
the  head.  .  .  . 

At  first  Aubert  was  abashed  by  the  knowledge  and  distin- 
guished manners  of  the  priest  and  M.  Watelet,  and  sat  mum, 
listening  intently  to  what  they  said.  Then,  little  by  little,  he 
joined  in  the  conversation,  giving  way  to  the  nai've  pleasure 
that  he  found  in  hearing  himself  speak.  He  paraded  his  gen- 
erous store  of  rather  vague  ideas.  The  other  two  would  listen 
politely,  and  smile  inwardly.  Aubert  was  delighted,  and  could 


418  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

not  hold  himself  in :  he  took  advantage  of,  and  presently  abused, 
the  inexhaustible  patience  of  the  Abbe  Corneille.  He  read  his 
literary  productions  to  him.  The  priest  listened  resignedly; 
and  it  did  not  bore  him  overmuch,  for  he  listened  not  so  much  to 
the  words  as  to  the  man.  And  then  he  would  reply  to  Chris- 
tophe's  commiseration : 

"  Bah !    I  hear  so  many  of  them !  " 

Aubert  was  grateful  to  M.  Watelet  and  the  Abbe  Corneille: 
and,  without  taking  much  trouble  to  understand  each  other's 
ideas,  or  even  to  find  out  what  they  were,  the  three  of  them  be- 
came very  good  friends  without  exactly  knowing  why.  They 
were  very  surprised  to  find  themselves  so  intimate.  They  would 
never  have  thought  it. — Christophe  was  the  bond  between  them. 

He  had  other  innocent  allies  in  the  three  children,  the  two 
little  Elsbergers  and  M.  Watelet's  adopted  daughter.  He  was 
great  friends  with  them :  they  adored  him.  He  told  each  of 
them  about  the  other,  and  gave  them  an  irresistible  longing 
to  know  each  other.  They  used  to  make  signs  to  each  other 
from  the  windows,  and  spoke  to  each  other  furtively  on  the 
stairs.  Aided  and  abetted  by  Christophe,  they  even  managed  to 
get  permission  sometimes  to  meet  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens. 
Christophe  was  delighted  with  the  success  of  his  guile,  and  went 
to  see  them  there  the  first  time  they  "were  together:  they  were 
shy  and  embarrassed,  and  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  their 
new  happiness.  He  broke  down  their  reserve  in  a  moment,  and 
invented  games  for  them,  and  races,  and  played  hide-and-seek: 
he  joined  in  as  keenly  as  though  he  were  a  child  of  ten:  the 
passers-by  cast  amused  and  quizzical  glances  at  the  great  big 
fellow,  running  and  shouting  and  dodging  round  trees,  with 
three  little  girls  after  him.  And  as  their  parents  were  still  sus- 
picious of  each  other,  and  showed  no  great  readiness  to  let  these 
excursions  to  the  Luxembourg  Gardens  occur  very  often — (be- 
cause it  kept  them  too  far  out  of  sight) — Christophe  managed 
to  get  Commandant  Chabran,  who  lived  on  the  ground  floor, 
to  invite  the  children  to  play  in  the  garden  belonging  to  the 
bouse, 


THE  HOUSE  419 

Chance  had  thrown  Christophe  and  the  old  soldier  together: 
—  (chance  always  singles  out  those  who  can  turn  it  to  account). 
— Christophe's  writing-table  was  near  his  window.  One  day 
the  wind  blew  a  few  sheets  of  music  down  into  the  garden. 
Christophe  rushed  down,  bareheaded  and  disheveled,  just  as  he 
was,  without  even  taking  the  trouble  to  brush  his  hair.  He 
thought  he  would  only  have  to  see  a  servant.  However,  the 
daughter  opened  the  door  to  him.  He  was  rather  taken  aback, 
but  told  her  what  he  had  come  for.  She  smiled  and  let  him  in : 
they  went  into  the  garden.  When  he  had  picked  up  his  papers 
he  was  for  hurrying  away,  and  she  was  taking  him  to  the  door, 
when  they  met  the  old  soldier.  The  Commandant  gazed  at  his 
odd  visitor  in  some  surprise.  His  daughter  laughed,  and  in- 
troduced him. 

"Ah!  So  you  are  the  musician?"  said  the  old  soldier. 
"  We  are  comrades." 

They  shook  hands.  They  talked  in  a  friendly,  bantering 
tone  of  the  concerts  they  gave  together,  Christophe  with  his 
piano,  the  Commandant  with  his  flute.  Christophe  tried  to  go, 
but  the  old  man  would  not  let  him :  and  he  plunged  blindly  into 
a  disquisition  on  music.  Suddenly  he  stopped  short,  and 
said: 

"  Come  and  see  my  canons." 

Christophe  followed  him,  wondering  how  anybody  could  be 
interested  in  anything  he  might  think  about  French  artillery. 
The  old  man  showed  him  in  triumph  a  number  of  musical 
canons,  amazing  productions,  compositions  that  might  just  as 
well  be  read  upside  down,  or  played  as  duets,  one  person  playing 
the  right-hand  page,  and  the  other  the  left.  The  Commandant  was 
an  old  pupil  of  the  Polytechnic,  and  had  always  had  a  taste  for 
music :  but  what  he  loved  most  of  all  in  it  was  the  mathematical 
problem:  it  seemed  to  him — (as  up  to  a  point  it  is) — a  mag- 
nificent mental  gymnastic:  and  he  racked  his  brains  in  the  in- 
vention and  solution  of  puzzles  in  the  construction  of  music, 
each  more  useless  and  extravagant  than  the  last.  Of  course,  his 
military  career  had  not  left  him  much,  time  for  the  development 


420  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

of  his  mania:  but  since  his  retirement  he  had  thrown  himself 
into  it  with  enthusiasm :  he  expended  on  it  all  the  energy  and 
ingenuity  which  he  had  previously  employed  in  pursuing  the 
hordes  of  negro  kings  through  the  deserts  of  Africa,  or  avoiding 
their  traps.  Christophe  found  his  puzzles  quite  amusing,  and 
set  him  a  more  complicated  one  to  solve.  The  old  soldier  was 
delighted :  they  vied  with  one  another :  they  produced  a  perfect 
shower  of  musical  riddles.  After  they  had  been  playing  the 
game  for  some  time,  Christophe  went  upstairs  to  his  own  room. 
But  the  very  next  morning  his  neighbor  sent  him  a  new  problem, 
a  regular  teaser,  at  which  the  Commandant  had  been  working 
half  the  night:  he  replied  with  another:  and  the  duel  went  on 
until  Christophe,  who  was  getting  tired  of  it,  declared  himself 
beaten:  at  which  the  old  soldier  was  perfectly  delighted.  He 
regarded  his  success  as  a  retaliation  on  Germany.  He  invited 
Christophe  to  lunch.  Christophe's  frankness  in  telling  the  old 
soldier  that  he  detested  his  musical  compositions,  and  shouting 
in  protest  when  Chabran  began  to  murder  an  andante  of  Haydn 
on  his  harmonium,  completed  the  conquest.  From  that  time 
on  they  often  met  to  talk.  But  not  about  music.  Christophe 
could  not  summon  up  any  great  interest  in  his  neighbor's 
crotchety  notions  about  it,  and  much  preferred  getting  him  to 
talk  about  military  subjects.  The  Commandant  asked  nothing 
better:  music  was  only  a  forced  amusement  for  the  unhappy 
man :  in  reality,  he  was  fretting  his  life  out. 

He  was  easily  led  on  to  yarn  about  his  African  campaigns. 
Gigantic  adventures  worthy  of  the  tales  of  a  Pizarro  and  a 
Cortez !  Christophe  was  delighted  with  the  vivid  narrative  of 
that  marvelous  and  barbaric  epic,  of  which  he  knew  nothing, 
and  almost  every  Frenchman  is  ignorant :  the  tale  of  the  twenty 
years  during  which  the  heroism,  and  courage,  and  inventive- 
ness, and  superhuman  energy  of  a  conquering  handful  of  French- 
men were  spent  far  away  in  the  depths  of  the  Black  Continent, 
where  they  were  surrounded  by  armies  of  negroes,  where  they 
were  deprived  of  the  most  rudimentary  arms  of  war,  and  yet,  in 
the  face  of  public  opinion  and  a  panic-stricken  Government,  in 


THE  HOUSE  421 

spite  of  France,  conquered  for  France  an  empire  greater  than 
France  itself.  There  was  the  flavor  of  a  mighty  joy,  a  flavor 
of  blood  in  the  tale,  from  which,  in  Christophe's  mind's  eye, 
there  sprang  the  figures  of  modern  condottieri,  heroic  adven- 
turers, unlooked  for  in  the  France  of  to-day,  whom  the  France 
of  to-day  is  ashamed  to  own,  so  that  she  modestly  draws  a  veil 
over  them.  The  Commandant's  voice  would  ring  out  bravely  as 
he  recalled  it  all :  and  he  would  jovially  recount,  with  learned 
descriptions — (oddly  interpolated  in  his  epic  narrative) — of 
the  geological  structure  of  the  country,  in  cold,  precise  terms, 
the  story  of  the  tremendous  marches,  and  the  charges  at  full 
gallop,  and  the  man-hunts,  in  which  he  had  been  hunter  and 
quarry,  turn  and  turn  about,  in  a  struggle  to  the  death. — 
Christophe  would  listen  and  watch  his  face,  and  feel  a  great 
pity  for  such  a  splendid  human  animal,  condemned  to  inaction, 
and  forced  to  spend  his  time  in  playing  ridiculous  games.  He 
wondered  how  he  could  ever  have  become  resigned  to  such  a  lot. 
He  asked  the  old  man  how  he  had  done  it.  The  Commandant 
was  at  first  not  at  all  inclined  to  let  a  stranger  into  his  con- 
fidence as  to  his  grievances.  But  the  French  are  naturally 
loquacious,  especially  when  they  have  a  chance  of  pitching  into 
each  other : 

"  What  on  earth  should  I  do,"  he  said,  "  in  the  army  as  it  is 
to-day?  The  marines  write  books.  The  infantry  study 
sociology.  They  do  everything  but  make  war.  They  don't  even 
prepare  for  it :  they  prepare  never  to  go  to  war  again :  they 
study  the  philosophy  of  war.  .  .  .  The  philosophy  of  war! 
That's  a  game  for  beasts  of  burden  wondering  how  much  thrash- 
ing they  are  going  to  get!  .  .  .  Discussing,  philosophizing, 
no,  that's  not  my  work.  Much  better  stay  at  home  and  go  on 
with  my  canons !  " 

He  was  too  much  ashamed  to  air  the  most  serious  of  his 
grievances:  the  suspicion  created  among  the  officers  by  the 
appeal  to  informers,  the  humiliation  of  having  to  submit  to  the 
insolent  orders  of  certain  crass  and  mischievous  politicians,  the 
army's  disgust  at  being  put  to  base  police  duty,  taking  inventories 


4S3  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

of  the  churches,  putting  down  industrial  strikes,  at  the  bidding 
of  capital  and  the  spite  of  the  party  in  power — the  petty  burgess 
radicals  and  anti-clericals — against  the  rest  of  the  country. 
Not  to  speak  of  the  old  African's  disgust  with  the  new  Colonial 
Army,  which  was  for  the  most  part  recruited  from  the  lowest 
elements  of  the  nation,  by  way  of  pandering  to  the  egoism  and 
cowardice  of  the  rest,  who  refuse  to  share  in  the  honor  and  the 
risks  of  securing  the  defense  of  "  greater  France  " — France  be- 
yond the  seas. 

Christophe  was  not  concerned  with  these  French  quarrels: 
they  were  no  affair  of  his :  but  he  sympathized  with  the  old  sol- 
dier. Whatever  he  might  think  of  war,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
an  army  was  meant  to  produce  soldiers,  as  an  apple-tree  to 
produce  apples,  and  that  it  was  a  strange  perversion  to  graft  on 
to  it  politicians,  esthetes,  and  sociologists.  And  yet  he  could 
not  understand  how  a  man  of  such  vigor  could  give  way  to  his 
adversaries.  It  is  to  be  his  own  worst  enemy  for  a  man  not  to 
fight  his  enemies.  In  all  French  people  of  any  worth  at  all  there 
was  a  spirit  of  surrender,  a  strange  temper  of  renunciation. — 
To  Christophe  it  was  even  more  profound,  and  even  more 
touching  as  it  existed  in  the  old  soldier's  daughter. 

Her  name  was  Celine.  She  had  beautiful  hair,  plaited  and 
braided  so  as  to  set  off  her  high,  round  forehead  and  her  rather 
pointed  ears,  her  thin  cheeks,  and  her  pretty  chin:  she  was  like 
a  country  girl,  with  fine  intelligent  dark  eyes,  very  trustful, 
very  soft,  rather  shortsighted:  her  nose  was  a  little  too  large, 
and  she  had  a  tiny  mole  on  her  upper  lip  by  the  corner  of  her 
mouth,  and  she  had  a  quiet  smile  which  made  her  pout  prettily 
and  thrust  out  her  lower  lip,  which  was  a  little  protruding.  She 
was  kind,  active,  clever,  but  she  had  no  curiosity  of  mind.  She 
read  very  little,  and  never  any  of  the  newest  books,  never  went 
to  the  theater,  never  traveled, —  (for  traveling  bored  her  father, 
who  had  had  too  much  of  it  in  the  old  days), — never  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  any  polite  charitable  work, —  (her  father  used 
to  condemn  all  such  things), — made  no  attempt  to  study, — (he 
used  to  make  fun  of  blue  stockings), — hardly  ever  left  her  little 


THE  HOUSE  423 

patch  of  garden  inclosed  by  its  four  high  walls,  so  that  it  was 
like  being  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  well.  And  yet  she  was  not 
really  bored.  She  occupied  her  time  as  best  she  could,  and  was 
good-tempered  and  resigned.  About  her  and  about  the  setting 
which  every  woman  unconsciously  creates  for  herself  wherever 
she  may  be,  there  was  a  Chardinesque  atmosphere:  the  same 
soft  silence,  the  same  tranquil  expression,  the  same  attitude  of 
absorption — (a  little  drowsy  and  languid) — in  the  common 
task:  the  poetry  of  the  daily  round,  of  the  accustomed  way  of 
life,  with  its  fixed  thoughts  and  actions,  falling  into  exactly  the 
same  place  at  exactly  the  same  time — thoughts  and  actions 
which  are  cherished  none  the  less  with  an  all-pervading  tranquil 
gentleness :  the  serene  mediocrity  of  the  fine-souled  women  of 
the  middle-class:  honest,  conscientious,  truthful,  calm — calm  in 
their  pleasures,  unruffled  in  their  labors,  and  yet  poetic  in  all 
their  qualities.  They  are  healthy  and  neat  and  tidy,  clean  in 
body  and  mind:  all  their  lives  are  sweetened  with  the  scent  of 
good  bread,  and  lavender,  and  integrity,  and  kindness.  There 
is  peace  in  all  that  they  are  and  do,  the  peace  of  old  houses  and 
smiling  souls.  .  .  . 

Christophe,  whose  affectionate  trustfulness  invited  trust,  had 
become  very  friendly  with  her :  they  used  to  talk  quite  frankly : 
and  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  ask  her  certain  questions,  which 
she  was  surprised  to  find  herself  answering:  she  would  tell 
him  things  which  she  had  not  told  anybody,  even  her  most  in- 
timate friends. 

"You  see,"  Christophe  would  say,  "you're  not  afraid  of  me. 
There's  no  danger  of  our  falling  in  love  with  each  other :  we're 
too  good  friends  for  that." 

"  You're  very  polite ! "  she  would  answer  with  a  laugh. 

Her  healthy  nature  recoiled  as  much  as  Christophe's  from 
philandering  friendship,  that  form  of  sentimentality  dear  to 
equivocal  men  and  women,  who  are  always  juggling  with  their 
emotions.  They  were  just  comrades  one  to  another. 

He  asked  her  one  day  what  she  was  doing  in  the  afternoons, 
when  he  saw  her  sitting  in  the  garden  with  her  work  on  her 


424  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

knees,  never  touching  it,  and  not  stirring  for  hours  together. 
She  blushed,  and  protested  that  it  was  not  a  matter  of  hours, 
but  only  a  matter  of  a  few  minutes,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  during  which  she  "  went  on  with  her  story." 

"What  story?" 

"  The  story  I  am  always  telling  myself." 

"  You  tell  yourself  stories  ?     Oh,  tell  them  to  me !  " 

She  told  him  that  he  was  too  curious.  She  would  only  go 
so  far  as  to  intimate  that  they  were  stories  of  which  she  was  not 
the  heroine. 

He  was  surprised  at  that : 

"If  you  are  going  to  tell  yourself  stories,  it  seems  to  me 
that  it  would  be  more  natural  if  you  told  your  own  story  with 
embellishments,  and  lived  in  a  happier  dream-life." 

"  I  couldn't,"  she  said.  "  If  I  did  that,  I  should  become 
desperate." 

She  blushed  again  at  having  revealed  even  so  much  of  her 
inmost  thoughts :  and  she  went  on : 

"Besides,  when  I  am  in  the  garden  and  a  gust  of  wind 
reaches  me,  I  am  happy.  Then  the  garden  becomes  alive  for 
me.  And  when  the  wind  blusters  and  comes  from  a  great 
distance,  he  tells  me  so  many  things !  " 

In  spite  of  her  reserve,  Christophe  could  see  the  hidden  depths 
of  melancholy  that  lay  behind  her  good-humor,  and  the  restless 
activity  which,  as  she  knew  perfectly  well,  led  nowhere.  Why 
did  she  not  try  to  break  away  from  her  condition  and  emancipate 
herself?  She  would  have  been  so  well  fitted  for  a  useful  and 
active  life! — But  she  alleged  her  affection  for  her  father,  who 
would  not  hear  of  her  leaving  him.  In  vain  did  Christophe  tell 
her  that  the  old  soldier  was  perfectly  vigorous  and  energetic,  and 
had  no  need  of  her,  and  that  a  man  of  his  stamp  could  quite 
well  be  left  alone,  and  had  no  right  to  make  a  sacrifice  of  her. 
She  would  begin  to  defend  her  father:  by  a  pious  fiction  she 
would  pretend  that  it  was  not  her  father  who  was  forcing  her 
to  stay,  but  she  herself  who  could  not  bear  to  leave  him. — And, 
up  to  a  point,  what  she  said  was  true.  It  seemed  to  have  been 


THE  HOUSE  425 

accepted  from  time  immemorial  by  herself,  and  her  father,  and 
all  their  friends  that  their  life  had  to  be  thus  and  thus,  and  not 
otherwise.  She  had  a  married  brother,  who  thought  it  quite 
natural  that  she  should  devote  her  life  to  their  father  in  his 
stead.  He  was  entirely  wrapped  up  in  his  children.  He  loved 
them  jealously,  and  left  them  no  will  of  their  own.  His  love 
for  his  children  was  to  him,  and  especially  to  his  wife,  a  volun- 
tary bondage  which  weighed  heavily  on  their  life,  and  cramped 
all  their  movements:  his  idea  seemed  to  be  that  as  soon  as  a 
man  has  children,  his  own  life  comes  to  an  end,  and  he  has  to 
stop  short  in  his  own  development:  he  was  still  young,  active, 
and  intelligent,  and  there  he  was  reckoning  up  the  years  he 
would  have  still  to  work  before  he  could  retire. — Christophe  saw 
how  these  good  people  were  weighed  down  by  the  atmosphere 
of  family  affection,  which  is  so  deep-rooted  in  France — deep- 
rooted,  but  stifling  and  destructive  of  vitality.  And  it  has  be- 
come all  the  more  oppressive  since  families  in  France  have  been 
reduced  to  the  minimum:  father,  mother,  one  or  two  children, 
and  here  and  there,  perhaps,  an  uncle  or  an  aunt.  It  is  a 
cowardly,  fearful  love,  turned  in  upon  itself,  like  a  miser  cling- 
ing tightly  to  his  hoard  of  gold. 

A  fortuitous  circumstance  gave  Christophe  a  yet  greater  in- 
terest in  the  girl,  and  showed  him  the  full  extent  of  the  sup- 
pression of  the  emotions  of  the  French,  their  fear  of  life,  of  let- 
ting themselves  go,  and  claiming  their  birthright. 

Elsberger,  the  engineer,  had  a  brother  ten  years  younger  than 
himself,  likewise  an  engineer.  He  was  a  very  good  fellow,  like 
thousands  of  others,  of  the  middle-class,  and  he  had  artistic 
aspirations :  he  was  one  of  those  people  who  would  like  to  prac- 
tise an  art,  but  are  afraid  of  compromising  their  reputation  and 
position.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  not  a  very  difficult  problem, 
and  most  of  the  artists  of  to-day  have  solved  it  without  any 
great  danger  to  themselves.  But  it  needs  a  certain  amount  of 
will-power :  and  not  everybody  is  capable  of  even  that  much  ex- 
penditure of  energy :  such  people  are  not  sure  enough  of  wanting 
what  they  really  want :  and  as  their  position  in  life  grows  more 


426  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

assured,  they  submit  and  drift  along,  without  any  show  of  revolt 
or  protest.  They  cannot  be  blamed  if  they  become  good  citizens 
instead  of  bad  artists.  But  their  disappointment  too  often 
leaves  behind  it  a  secret  discontent,  a  qualis  artifex  pereo,  which 
as  best  it  can  assumes  a  crust  of  what  is  usually  called  philos- 
ophy, and  spoils  their  lives,  until  the  wear  and  tear  of  daily 
life  and  new  anxieties  have  erased  all  trace  of  the  old  bitterness. 
Such  was  the  case  of  Andre  Elsberger.  He  would  have  liked 
to  be  a  writer:  but  his  brother,  who  was  very  self-willed,  had 
made  him  follow  in  his  footsteps  and  enter  upon  a  scientific 
career.  Andre  was  clever,  and  quite  well  equipped  for  scientific 
work — or  for  literature,  for  that  matter :  he  was  not  sure  enough 
of  being  an  artist,  and  he  was  too  sure  that  he  was  middle- 
class:  and  so,  provisionally  at  first, —  (one  knows  what  that 
means) — he  had  bowed  to  his  brother's  wishes:  he  entered  the 
Centrale,  high  up  in  the  list,  and  passed  out  equally  high,  and 
since  then  he  had  practised  his  profession  as  an  engineer  con- 
scientiously, but  without  being  interested  in  it.  Of  course,  he 
had  lost  the  little  artistic  quality  that  he  had  possessed,  and  he 
never  spoke  of  it  except  ironically. 

"  And  then,"  he  used  to  say — (Christophe  recognized  Olivier's 
pessimistic  tendency  in  his  arguments) — "life  is  not  good 
enough  to  make  one  worry  about  a  spoiled  career.  What  does  a 
bad  poet  more  or  less  matter !  .  .  . " 

The  brothers  were  fond  of  one  another:  they  were  of  the 
same  stamp  morally:  but  they  did  not  get  on  well  together. 
They  had  both  been  Dreyfus-mad.  But  Andre  was  attracted 
by  syndicalism,  and  was  an  anti-militarist:  and  Elie  was  a 
patriot. 

From  time  to  time  Andre  would  visit  Christophe  without  go- 
ing to  see  his  brother:  and  that  astonished  Christophe:  for 
there  was  no  great  sympathy  between  himself  and  Andre,  who 
used  hardly  ever  to  open  his  mouth  except  to  gird  at  some- 
thing or  somebody, — which  was  very  tiresome :  and  when  Chris- 
tophe said  anything,  Andre  would  not  listen.  Christophe  made 
no  effort  to  conceal  the  fact  that  he  found  his  visits  a  nuisance : 


THE  HOUSE  42? 

but  Andre  did  not  mind,  and  seemed  not  to  notice  it.  At  last 
Christophe  found  the  key  to  the  riddle  one  day  when  he  found 
his  visitor  leaning  out  of  the  window,  and  paying  much  more 
attention  to  what  was  happening  in  the  garden  below  than  to 
what  he  was  saying.  He  remarked  upon  it,  and  Andre  was  not 
reluctant  to  admit  that  he  knew  Mademoiselle  Chabran,  and  that 
she  had  something  to  do  with  his  visits  to  Christophe.  And,  his 
tongue  being  loosed,  he  confessed  that  he  had  long  been  attached 
to  the  girl,  and  perhaps  something  more  than  that:  the  Els- 
bergers  had  long  ago  been  in  close  touch  with  the  Chabrans :  but, 
though  they  had  been  very  intimate,  politics  and  recent  events 
had  separated  them :  and  thereafter  they  saw  very  little  of  each 
other.  Christophe  did  not  disguise  his  opinion  that  it  was  an 
idiotic  state  of  things.  Was  it  impossible  for  people  to  think 
differently,  and  yet  to  retain  their  mutual  esteem?  Andre  said 
he  thought  it  was,  and  protested  that  he  was  very  broad-minded : 
but  he  would  not  admit  the  possibility  of  tolerance  in  certain 
questions,  concerning  which,  he  said,  he  could  not  admit  any 
opinion  different  from  his  own :  and  he  instanced  the  famous 
Affair.  On  that,  as  usual,  he  became  wild.  Christophe  knew 
the  sort  of  thing  that  happened  in  that  connection,  and  made  no 
attempt  to  argue:  but  he  asked  whether  the  Affair  was  never 
going  to  come  to  an  end,  or  whether  its  curse  was  to  go  on  and 
on  to  the  end  of  time,  descending  even  unto  the  third  and  fourth 
generation.  Andre  began  to  laugh:  and  without  answering 
Christophe,  he  fell  to  tender  praise  of  Celine  Chabran,  and 
protested  against  her  father's  selfishness,  who  thought  it  quite 
natural  that  she  should  be  sacrificed  to  him. 

"  Why  don't  you  marry  her,"  asked  Christophe,  "  if  you  love 
her  and  she  loves  you  ?  " 

Andr6  said  mournfully  that  Celine  was  clerical.  Christophe 
asked  what  he  meant  by  that.  Andre  replied  that  he  meant 
that  she  was  religious,  and  had  vowed  a  sort  of  feudal  service  to 
God  and  His  bonzes. 

"  But  how  does  that  affect  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  share  my  wife  with  any  one." 


428  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"What!  You  are  jealous  even  of  your  wife's  ideas?  Why, 
you're  more  selfish  even  than  the  Commandant !  " 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk :  would  you  take  a  woman 
who  did  not  love  music  ?  " 

"I  have  done  so." 

"  How  can  a  man  and  a  woman  live  together  if  they  don't 
think  the  same  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  what  you  think !  Ah !  my  dear 
fellow,  ideas  count  for  so  little  when  one  loves.  What  does  it 
matter  to  me  whether  the  woman  I  love  cares  for  music  as 
much  as  I  do  ?  She  herself  is  music  to  me !  When  a  man  has 
the  luck,  as  you  have,  to  find  a  dear  girl  whom  he  loves,  and 
she  loves  him,  she  must  believe  what  she  likes,  and  he  must 
believe  what  he  likes !  When  all  is  said  and  done,  what  do  your 
ideas  amount  to?  There  is  only  one  truth  in  the  world,  there 
is  only  one  God :  love." 

"  You  speak  like  a  poet.  You  don't  see  life  as  it  is.  I  know 
only  too  many  marriages  which  have  suffered  from  such  a  want 
of  union  in  thought." 

"  Those  husbands  and  wives  did  not  love  each  other  enough. 
You  have  to  know  what  you  want." 

"  Wanting  does  not  do  everything  in  life.  Even  if  I  wanted 
to  marry  Mademoiselle  Chabran,  I  couldn't." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  why." 

Andre  spoke  of  his  scruples:  his  position  was  not  assured: 
he  had  no  fortune  and  no  great  health.  He  was  wondering 
whether  he  had  the  right  to  marry  in  such  circumstances.  It 
was  a  great  responsibility.  Was  there  not  a  great  risk  of  bring- 
ing unhappiness  on  the  woman  he  loved,  and  himself, — not  to 
mention  any  children  there  might  be?  ...  It  was  better  to 
wait — or  give  up  the  idea. 

Christophe  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"That's  a  fine  sort  of  love!  If  she  loves  you,  she  will  be 
happy  in  her  devotion  to  you.  And  as  for  the  children,  you 
French  people  are  absurd.  You  would  like  only  to  bring  them 
into  the  world  when  you  are  sure  of  turning  them  out  with 


THE  HOUSE  429 

comfortable  private  means,  so  that  they  will  have  nothing  to 
suffer  and  nothing  to  fear.  .  .  .  Good  Lord !  That's  nothing 
to  do  with  you :  your  business  is  only  to  give  them  life,  love  of 
life,  and  courage  to  defend  it.  The  rest  .  .  .  whether  they 
live  or  die  ...  is  the  common  lot.  Is  it  better  to  give  up 
living  than  to  take  the  risks  of  life  ?  " 

The  sturdy  confidence  which  emanated  from  Christophe  af- 
fected Andre,  but  did  not  change  his  mind.  He  said : 

"  Yes,  perhaps,  that  is  true.   ..." 

But  he  stopped  at  that.  Like  all  the  rest,  his  will  and  power 
of  action  seemed  to  be  paralyzed. 

Christophe  had  set  himself  to  fight  the  inertia  which  he  found 
in  most  of  his  French  friends,  oddly  coupled  with  laborious  and 
often  feverish  activity.  Almost  all  the  people  he  met  in  the 
various  middle-class  houses  which  he  visited  were  discontented. 
They  had  almost  all  the  same  disgust  with  the  demagogues  and 
their  corrupt  ideas.  In  almost  all  there  was  the  same  sorrowful 
and  proud  consciousness  of  the  betrayal  of  the  genius  of  their 
race.  And  it  was  by  no  means  the  result  of  any  personal  ran- 
cor nor  the  bitterness  of  men  and  classes  beaten  and  thrust 
out  of  power  and  active  life,  or  discharged  officials,  or  unem- 
ployed energy,  nor  that  of  an  old  aristocracy  which  has  returned 
to  its  estates,  there  to  die  in  hiding  like  a  wounded  lion.  It 
was  a  feeling  of  moral  revolt,  mute,  profound,  general :  it  was  to 
be  found  everywhere,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  in  the  army,  in 
the  magistracy,  in  the  University,  in  the  officers,  and  in  every 
vital  branch  of  the  machinery  of  government.  But  they  took 
no  active  measures.  They  were  discouraged  in  advance :  they 
kept  on  saying : 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done :  " 
or 

"  Let  us  try  not  to  think  of  it." 

Fearfully  they  dodged  anything  sad  in  their  thoughts  and 
conversation :  and  they  took  refuge  in  their  home  life. 

If  they  had  been  content  to  refrain  only  from  political  action ! 


430  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

But  even  in  their  daily  lives  these  good  people  had  no  interest 
in  doing  anything  definite.  They  put  up  with  the  degrading, 
haphazard  contact  with  horrible  people  whom  they  despised,  be- 
cause they  could  not  take  the  trouble  to  fight  against  them,' 
thinking  that  any  such  revolt  must  of  necessity  be  useless.  Why, 
for  instance,  should  artists,  and,  in  particular,  the  musicians 
with  whom  Christophe  was  most  in  touch,  unprotestingly  put 
up  with  the  effrontery  of  the  scaramouches  of  the  Press,  who  laid 
down  the  law  for  them?  There  were  absolute  idiots  among 
them,  whose  ignorance  in  omni  re  scibili  was  proverbial,  though 
they  were  none  the  less  invested  with  a  sovereign  authority  in 
omni  re  scibili.  They  did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  write 
their  articles  and  books:  they  had  secretaries,  poor  starving 
creatures,  who  would  have  sold  their  souls,  if  they  had  had  such 
things,  for  bread  or  women.  There  was  no  secret  about  it  in 
Paris.  And  yet  they  went  on  riding  their  high  horse  and 
patronizing  the  artists.  Christophe  used  to  roar  with  anger 
sometimes  when  he  read  their  articles. 

"  They  have  no  heart !  "  he  would  say.     "  Oh !  the  cowards !  " 
"  Who  are  you  screaming  at  ? "   Olivier  would  ask.     "  The 
idiots  of  the  market-place  ?  " 

"  No.  The  honest  men.  These  rascals  are  plying  their  trade : 
they  lie,  they  steal,  they  rob  and  murder.  But  it  is  the  others — 
those  who  despise  them  and  yet  let  them  go  on — that  I  despise 
a  thousand  times  more.  If  their  colleagues  on  the  Press,  if 
honest,  cultured  critics,  and  the  artists  on  whose  backs  these 
harlequins  strut  and  poise  themselves,  did  not  put  up  with  it, 
in  silence,  from  shyness  or  fear  of  compromising  themselves,  or 
from  some  shameful  anticipation  of  mutual  service,  a  sort  of 
secret  pact  made  with  the  enemy  so  that  they  may  be  immune 
from  their  attacks, — if  they  did  not  let  them  preen  themselves  in 
their  patronage  and  friendship,  their  upstart  power  would  soon 
be  killed  by  ridicule.  There's  the  same  weakness  in  everything, 
everywhere.  I've  met  twenty  honest  men  who  have  said  to  me 
of  so-and-so :  '  He  is  a  scoundrel.'  But  there  is  not  one  of  them 
who  would  not  refer  to  him  as  his  '  dear  colleague,'  and,  if  he 


THE  HOUSE  431 

met  him,  shake  hands  with  him. — '  There  are  too  many  of 
them ! '  they  say. — Too  many  cowards.  Too  many  flabby  honest 
men." 

"  Eh !     What  do  you  want  them  to  do?  " 

"  Be  every  man  his  own  policeman !  What  are  you  waiting 
for?  For  Heaven  to  take  your  affairs  in  hand?  Look  you,  at 
this  very  moment.  It  is  three  days  now  since  the  snow  fell. 
Your  streets  are  thick  with  it,  and  your  Paris  is  like  a  sewer  of 
mud.  What  do  you  do?  You  protest  against  your  Municipal 
Council  for  leaving  you  in  such  a  state  of  filth.  But  do  you 
yourselves  do  anything  to  clear  it  away  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  You 
sit  with  your  arms  folded.  Not  one  of  you  has  energy  enough 
even  to  clean  the  pavement  in  front  of  his  house.  Nobody  does 
his  duty,  neither  the  State  nor  the  members  of  the  State :  each 
man  thinks  he  has  done  as  much  as  is  expected  of  him  by 
laying  the  blame  on  some  one  else.  You  have  become  so  used, 
through  centuries  of  monarchical  training,  to  doing  nothing 
for  yourselves  that  you  all  seem  to  spend  your  time  in  star-gazing 
and  waiting  for  a  miracle  to  happen.  The  only  miracle  that 
could  happen  would  be  if  you  all  suddenly  made  up  your  minds 
to  do  something.  My  dear  Olivier,  you  French  people  have 
plenty  of  brains  and  plenty  of  good  qualities :  but  you  lack  blood. 
You  most  of  all.  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  your  mind 
or  your  heart.  It's  your  life  that's  all  wrong.  You're  sputter- 
ing out." 

"  What  can  we  do  ?  We  can  only  wait  for  life  to  return 
to  us." 

"  You  must  want  life  to  return  to  you.  You  must  want  to  be 
cured.  You  must  want,  use  your  will !  And  if  you  are  to  do 
that  you  must  first  let  in  some  pure  air  into  your  houses.  If 
you  won't  go  out  of  doors,  then  at  least  you  must  keep  your 
houses  healthy.  You  have  let  the  air  be  poisoned  by  the  un- 
wholesome vapors  of  the  market-place.  Your  art  and  your 
ideas  are  two-thirds  adulterated.  And  you  are  so  dispirited 
that  it  hardly  occasions  you  any  surprise,  and  rouses  you  to  no 
sort  of  indignation.  Some  of  these  good  people — (it  is  pitiful 


432  JEAH-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

to  see) — are  so  cowed  that  they  actually  persuade  themselves 
that  they  are  wrong  and  the  charlatans  are  right.  Why — even 
on  your  Esope  review,  in  which  you  profess  not  to  be  taken  in 
by  anything, — I  have  found  unhappy  young  men  persuading 
themselves  that  they  love  an  art  and  ideas  for  which  they  have 
not  a  vestige  of  love.  They  get  drunk  on  it,  without  any  sort 
of  pleasure,  simply  because  they  are  told  to  do  so:  and  they 
are  dying  of  boredom — boredom  with  the  monstrous  lie  of  the 
whole  thing ! " 

Christophe  passed  through  these  wavering  and  dispirited 
creatures  like  a  wind  shaking  the  slumbering  trees.  He  made 
no  attempt  to  force  them  to  his  way  of  thinking:  he  breathed 
into  them  energy  enough  to  make  them  think  for  themselves. 
He  used  to  say: 

"You  are  too  humble.  The  grand  enemy  is  neurasthenia, 
doubt.  A  man  can  and  must  be  tolerant  and  human.  But  no 
man  may  doubt  what  he  believes  to  be  good  and  true.  A  man 
must  believe  in  what  he  thinks.  And  he  should  maintain  what 
he  believes.  Whatever  our  powers  may  be,  we  have  no  right  to 
forswear  them.  The  smallest  creature  in  the  world,  like  the 
greatest,  has  his  duty.  And — (though  he  is  not  sufficiently 
conscious  of  it) — he  has  also  a  power.  Why  should  you  think 
that  your  revolt  will  carry  so  little  weight?  A  sturdy  upright 
conscience  which  dares  assert  itself  is  a  mighty  thing.  More 
than  once  during  the  last  few  years  you  have  seen  the  State  and 
public  opinion  forced  to  reckon  with  the  views  of  an  honest  man, 
who  had  no  other  weapons  but  his  own  moral  force,  which,  with 
constant  courage  and  tenacity,  he  had  dared  publicly  to  as- 
sert. .  .  . 

"And  if  you  must  go  on  asking  what's  the  good  of  taking 
so  much  trouble,  what's  the  good  of  fighting,  what's  the  good  of 
it  all?  .  .  .  Then,  I  will  tell  you : — Because  France  is  dying, 
because  Europe  is  perishing — because,  if  we  did  not  fight,  our 
civilization,  the  edifice  so  splendidly  constructed,  at  the  cost  of 
centuries  of  labor,  by  our  humanity,  would  crumble  away.  These 


THE  HOUSE  433 

are  not  idle  words.  The  country  is  in  danger,  our  European 
mother-country, — and  more  than  any,  yours,  your  own  native 
country,  France.  Your  apathy  is  killing  her.  Your  silence  is 
killing  her.  Each  of  your  energies  as  it  dies,  each  of  your  ideas 
as  it  accepts  and  surrenders,  each  of  your  good  intentions  as  it 
ends  in  sterility,  every  drop  of  your  blood  as  it  dries  up,  un- 
used, in  your  veins,  means  death  to  her.  .  .  .  Up  !  up !  You 
must  live !  Or,  if  you  must  die,  then  you  must  die  fighting  like 
men." 

But  the  chief  difficulty  lay  not  in  getting  them  to  do  some- 
thing, but  in  getting  them  to  act  together.  There  they  were 
quite  unmanageable.  The  best  of  them  were  the  most  obstinate, 
as  Christophe  found  in  dealing  with  the  tenants  in  his  own 
house:  M.  Felix  Weil,  Elsberger,  the  engineer,  and  Com- 
mandant Chabran,  lived  on  terms  of  polite  and  silent  hostility. 
And  yet,  though  Christophe  knew  very  little  of  them,  he  could 
see  that,  underneath  their  party  and  racial  labels,  they  all  wanted 
the  same  thing. 

There  were  many  reasons  particularly  why  M.  Weil  and  the 
Commandant  should  have  understood  each  other.  By  one  of 
those  contrasts  common  to  thoughtful  men,  M.  Weil,  who  never 
left  his  books  and  lived  only  in  the  life  of  the  mind,  had  a 
passion  for  all  things  military.  "  We  are  all  cranks''  said  the 
half-Jew  Montaigne,  applying  to  mankind  in  general  what  is 
perfectly  true  of  certain  types  of  minds,  like  the  type  of  which 
M.  Weil  was  an  example.  The  old  intellectual  had  the  craze  for 
Napoleon.  He  collected  books  and  relics  which  brought  to  life 
in  him  the  terrible  dream  of  the  Imperial  epic.  Like  many 
Frenchmen  of  that  crepuscular  epoch,  he  was  dazzled  by  the 
distant  rays  of  that  glorious  sun.  He  used  to  go  through  the 
campaigns,  fight  the  battles  all  over  again,  and  discuss  opera- 
tions :  he  was  one  of  those  chamber-strategists  who  swarm  in  the 
Academies  and  the  Universities,  who  explain  Austerlitz  and 
declare  how  Waterloo  should  have  been  fought.  He  was  the 
first  to  make  fun  of  the  "  Napoleonite  "  in  himself :  it  tickled 


434  'JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

his  irony:  but  none  the  less  he  went  on  reading  the  splendid 
stories  with  the  wild  enthusiasm  of  a  child  playing  a  game:  he 
would  weep  over  certain  episodes:  and  when  he  realized  that 
he  had  been  weak  enough  to  shed  tears,  he  would  roar  with 
laughter,  and  call  himself  an  old  fool.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
was  a  Napoleonite  not  so  much  from  patriotism  as  from  a  ro- 
mantic interest  and  a  platonic  love  of  action.  However,  he  was 
a  good  patriot,  and  much  more  attached  to  France  than  many  an 
actual  Frenchman.  The  French  anti-Semites  are  stupid  and 
actively  mischievous  in  casting  their  insulting  suspicions  on 
the  feeling  for  France  of  the  Jews  who  have  settled  in  the  coun- 
try. Outside  the  reasons  by  which  any  family  does  of  necessity, 
after  a  generation  or  two,  become  attached  to  the  land  of  its 
adoption,  where  the  blood  of  the  soil  has  become  its  own,  the 
Jews  have  especial  reason  to  love  the  nation  which  in  the 
West  stands  for  the  most  advanced  ideas  of  intellectual  and 
moral  liberty.  They  love  it  because  for  a  hundred  years  they 
have  helped  to  make  it  so,  and  its  liberty  is  in  part  their  work. 
How,  then,  should  they  not  defend  it  against  every  menace  of 
feudal  reaction?  To  try — as  a  handful  of  unscrupulous  poli- 
ticians and  a  herd  of  wrong-headed  people  would  like — to  break 
the  bonds  which  bind  these  Frenchmen  by  adoption  to  France, 
is  to  play  into  the  hands  of  that  reaction. 

Commandant  Chabran  was  one  of  those  wrong-headed  old 
Frenchmen  who  are  roused  to  fury  by  the  newspapers,  which 
make  out  that  every  immigrant  into  France  is  a  secret  enemy, 
and,  in  a  human,  hospitable  spirit,  force  themselves  to  suspect 
and  hate  and  revile  them,  and  deny  the  brave  destiny  of  the 
race,  which  is  the  conflux  of  all  the  races.  Therefore,  he 
thought  it  incumbent  on  him  not  to  know  the  tenant  of  the  first 
floor,  although  he  would  have  been  glad  to  have  his  acquaintance. 
As  for  M.  Weil,  he  would  have  been  very  glad  to  talk  to  the  old 
soldier:  but  he  knew  him  for  a  nationalist,  and  regarded  him 
with  mild  contempt. 

Christophe  had  much  less  reason  than  the  Commandant  for 
being  interested  in  M.  Weil.  But  he  could  not  bear  to  hear  ill 


THE  HOUSE  435 

spoken  of  anybody  unjustly.  And  he  broke  many  a  lance  in  de- 
fence of  M.  Weil  when  he  was  attacked  in  his  presence. 

One  day,  when  the  Commandant,  as  usual,  was  railing  against 
the  prevailing  state  of  things,  Christophe  said  to  him : 

"  It  is  your  own  fault.  You  all  shut  yourselves  up  inside 
yourselves.  When  things  in  France  are  not  going  well,  to  your 
way  of  thinking,  you  submit  to  it  and  send'  in  your  resignation. 
One  would  think  it  was  a  point  of  honor  with  you  to  admit  your- 
selves beaten.  I've  never  seen  anybody  lose  a  cause  with  such 
absolute  delight.  Come,  Commandant,  you  have  made  war;  is 
that  fighting,  or  anything  like  it?" 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  fighting,"  replied  the  Commandant. 
"  We  don't  fight  against  France.  In  such  struggles  as  these  we 
have  to  argue,  and  vote,  and  mix  with  ail  sorts  of  knaves  and 
low  blackguards :  and  I  don't  like  it," 

"You  seem  to  be  profoundly  disgusted!  I  suppose  you  had 
to  do  with  knaves  and  low  blackguards  in  Africa !  " 

"  On  my  honor,  that  did  not  disgust  me  nearly  so  much.  Out 
there  one  could  always  knock  them  down!  Besides,  if  it's  a 
question  of  fighting,  you  need  soldiers.  I  had  my  sharpshooters 
out  there.  Here  I  am  all  alone." 

"  It  isn't  that  there  is  any  lack  of  good  men." 

"Where  are  they?" 

"  Everywhere.     All  round  us." 

"  Well :  what  are  they  doing  ?  " 

"  Just  what  you're  doing.  Nothing.  They  say  there's  nothing 
to  be  done." 

"  Give  me  an  instance." 

"  Three,  if  you  like,  in  this  very  house." 

Christophe  mentioned  M.  Weil, —  (the  Commandant  gave  an 
exclamation), — and  the  Elsbergers, —  (he  jumped  in  his  seat)  : 

"  That  Jew  ?     Those  Dreyf usards  ?  " 

"  Dreyf  usards  ?  "  said  Christophe.  "  Well :  what  does  that 
matter?" 

"  It  is  they  who  have  ruined  France." 

"  They  love  France  as  much  as  you  do." 


436  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"  They're  mad,  mischievous  lunatics." 

"  Can't  you  be  just  to  your  adversaries  ?  " 

"I  can  get  on  quite  well  with  loyal  adversaries  who  use  the 
same  weapons.  The  proof  of  that  is  that  I  am  here  talking 
to  you,  Monsieur  German.  I  can  think  well  of  the  Germans, 
although  some  day  I  hope  to  give  them  back  with  interest  the 
thrashing  we  got  from  them.  But  it  is  not  the  same  thing 
with  our  enemies  at  home:  they  use  underhand  weapons,  soph- 
istry, and  unsound  ideas,  and  a  poisonous  humanitarian- 
ism.  ..." 

"Yes.  You  are  in  the  same  state  of  mind  as  that  of  the 
knights  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when,  for  the  first  time,  they  found 
themselves  faced  with  gunpowder.  What  do  you  want?  There 
is  evolution  in  war  too." 

"  So  be  it.  But  then,  let  us  be  frank,  and  say  that  war  is 
war." 

"  Suppose  a  common  enemy  were  to  threaten  Europe,  wouldn't 
you  throw  in  your  lot  with  the  Germans  ?  " 

"  We  did  so,  in  China." 

"  Very  well,  then :  look  about  you.  Don't  you  see  that  the 
heroic  idealism  of  your  country  and  every  other  country  in 
Europe  is  actually  threatened  ?  Don't  you  see  that  they  are  all, 
more  or  less,  a  prey  to  the  adventurers  of  every  class  of  society? 
To  fight  that  common  enemy,  don't  you  think  you  should  join 
with  those  of  your  adversaries  who  are  of  some  worth  and  moral 
vigor  ?  How  can  a  man  like  you  set  so  little  store  by  the  realities 
of  life  ?  Here  are  people  who  uphold  an  ideal  which  is  different 
from  your  own !  An  ideal  is  a  force,  you  cannot  deny  it :  in  the 
struggle  in  which  you  were  recently  engaged,  it  was  your  ad- 
versaries' ideal  which  defeated  you.  Instead  of  wasting  your 
strength  in  fighting  against  it,  why  not  make  use  of  it,  side 
by  side  with  your  own,  against  the  enemies  of  all  ideals,  the 
men  who  are  exploiting  your  country  and  your  wealth  of  ideas, 
the  men  who  are  bringing  European  civilization  to  rottenness  ?  " 

"  For  whose  sake  ?  One  must  know  where  one  is.  To  make 
our  adversaries  triumph?" 


THE  HOUSE  437 

"  When  you  were  in  Africa,  you  never  stopped  to  think 
whether  you  were  fighting  for  the  King  or  the  Eepublic.  I 
fancy  that  not  many  of  you  ever  gave  a  thought  to  the  Ee- 
public." 

"  They  didn't  care  a  rap." 

"  Good !  And  that  was  well  for  France.  You  conquered 
for  her,  as  well  as  for  yourselves,  and  for  the  honor  and  the  joy 
of  it.  Why  not  do  the  same  here?  Why  not  widen  the  scope 
of  the  fight  ?  Don't  go  haggling  over  differences  in  politics  and 
religion.  These  things  are  utterly  futile.  What  does  it  matter 
whether  your  nation  is  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  Church  or 
the  eldest  daughter  of  Reason  ?  The  only  thing  that  does  matter 
is  that  it  should  live !  Everything  that  exalts  life  is  good.  There 
is  only  one  enemy,  pleasure-seeking  egoism,  which  fouls  the 
sources  of  life  and  dries  them  up.  Exalt  force,  exalt  the  light, 
exalt  fruitful  love,  the  joy  of  sacrifice,  action,  and  give  up  ex- 
pecting other  people  to  act  for  you.  Do,  act,  combine! 
Come!  .  .  ." 

And  he  laughed  and  began  to  bang  out  the  first  bars  of  the 
march  in  B  minor  from  the  Choral  Symphony. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  breaking  off,  "  that  if  I  were  one  of 
your  musicians,  say  Charpentier  or  Bruneau  (devil  take  the  two 
of  them!),  I  would  combine  in  a  choral  symphony  Aux  armes, 
citoyens!,  I' Internationale,  Vive  Henri  IV,  and  Dieu  Protege  la 
France!, — (You  see,  something  like  this.) — I  would  make  you 
a  soup  so  hot  that  it  would  burn  your  mouth !  It  would  be  un- 
pleasant,—  (no  worse  in  any  case  than  what  you  are  doing  now)  : 
— but  I  vow  it  would  warm  your  vitals,  and  that  you  would 
have  to  set  out  on  the  march ! "  • 

And  he  roared  with  laughter. 

The  Commandant  laughed  too : 

"  You're  a  fine  fellow,  Monsieur  Krafft.  What  a  pity  you're 
not  one  of  us !  " 

"  But  I  am  one  of  you !  The  fight  is  the  same  everywhere. 
Let  us  close  up  the  ranks !  " 

The  Commandant  quite  agreed:  but  there  he  stayed.     Then 


438  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

Christophe  pressed  his  point  and  brought  the  conversation  back 
to  M.  Weil  and  the  Elsbergers.  And  the  old  soldier  no  less 
obstinately  went  back  to  his  eternal  arguments  against  Jews 
and  Dreyfusards,  and  nothing  that  Christophe  had  said  seemed 
to  have  had  the  slightest  effect  on  him. 

Christophe  grew  despondent.     Olivier  said  to  him: 

"Don't  you  worry  about  it.  One  man  cannot  all  of  a  sud- 
den change  the  whole  state  of  mind  of  a  nation.  That's  too 
much  to  expect !  But  you  have  done  a  good  deal  without  know- 
ing it." 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  "  said  Christophe. 

"  You  are  Christophe." 

"  What  good  is  that  to  other  people  ?  " 

"A  great  deal.  Just  go  on  being  what  you  are,  my  dear 
Christophe.  Don't  you  worry  about  us." 

But  Christophe  could  not  surrender.  He  went  on  arguing 
with  Commandant  Chabran,  sometimes  with  great  vehemence. 
It  amused  Celine.  She  was  generally  present  at  their  dis- 
cussions, sitting  and  working  in  silence.  She  took  no  part  in  the 
argument:  but  it  seemed  to  make  her  more  lively:  and  quite  a 
different  expression  would  come  into  her  eyes :  it  was  as  though 
it  gave  her  more  breathing-space.  She  began  to  read,  and  went 
out  a  little  more,  and  found  more  things  to  interest  her.  And 
one  day,  when  Christophe  was  battling  with  her  father  about 
the  Elsbergers,  the  Commandant  saw  her  smile:  he  asked  her 
what  she  was  thinking,  and  she  replied  calmly: 

"  I  think  M.  Krafft  is  right." 

The  Commandant  was  taken  aback,  and  said : 

"  You  .  .  .  you  surprise  me !  .  .  .  However,  right  or 
wrong,  we  are  what  we  are.  And  there's  no  reason  why  we 
should  know  these  people.  Isn't  it  so,  my  dear  ?  " 

"No,  father,"  she  replied.  "I  would  like  to  know 
them." 

The  Commandant  said  nothing,  and  pretended  that  he  had 
not  heard.  He  himself  was  much  less  insensible  of  Christophe's 
influence  than  he  cared  to  appear.  His  vehemence  and  nar- 


THE  HOUSE  439 

row-mindedness  did  not  prevent  his  having  a  proper  sense  of 
justice  and  very  generous  feelings.  He  loved  Christophe,  he 
loved  his  frankness  and  his  moral  soundness,  and  he  used  often 
bitterly  to  regret  that  Christophe  was  a  German.  Although  he 
always  lost  his  temper  in  these  discussions,  he  was  always 
eager  for  more,  and  Christophe's  arguments  did  produce  an 
effect  on  him,  though  he  would  never  have  been  willing  to  admit 
it.  But  one  day  Christophe  found  him  absorbed  in  reading  a 
book  which  he  would  not  let  him  see.  And  when  Celine  took 
Christophe  to  the  door  and  found  herself  alone  with  him,  she 
said: 

"  Do  you  know  what  he  was  reading  ?  One  of  M.  Weil's 
books." 

Christophe  was  delighted. 

"  What  does  he  say  about  it  ?  " 

"  He  says :  '  Beast ! '  .    .    .     But  he  can't  put  it  down." 

Christophe  made  no  allusion  to  the  fact  with  the  Com- 
mandant. It  was  he  who  asked : 

"  Why  have  you  stopped  hurling  that  blessed  Jew  at  my 
head?" 

"  Because  I  don't  think  there's  any  need  to,"  said  Chris- 
tophe. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  the  Commandant  aggressively. 

Christophe  made  no  reply,  and  went  away  laughing. 

Olivier  was  right.  It  is  not  through  words  that  a  man  can  in- 
fluence other  men:  but  through  his  life.  There  are  people 
who  irradiate  an  atmosphere  of  peace  from  their  eyes,  and  in 
their  gestures,  and  through  the  silent  contact  with  the  serenity 
of  their  souls.  Christophe  irradiated  life.  Softly,  softly,  like 
the  moist  air  of  spring,  it  penetrated  the  walls  and  the  closed 
windows  of  the  somnolent  old  house:  it  gave  new  life  to  the 
hearts  of  men  and  women,  whom  sorrow,  weakness,  and  isolation 
had  for  years  been  consuming,  so  that  they  were  withered  and 
like  dead  creatures.  What  a  power  there  is  in  one  soul  over 
another!  Those  who  wield  that  power  and  those  who  feel  it 


440  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

are  alike  ignorant  of  its  working.  And  yet  the  life  of  the 
world  is  in  the  ebb  and  flow  controlled  by  that  mysterious  power 
of  attraction. 

On  the  second  floor,  below  Christophe  and  Olivier's  room, 
there  lived,  as  we  have  seen,  a  young  woman  of  thirty-five,  a 
Madame  Germain,  a  widow  of  two  years'  standing,  who,  the 
year  before,  had  lost  her  little  girl,  a  child  of  seven.  She  lived 
with  her  mother-in-law,  and  they  never  saw  anybody.  Of  all 
the  tenants  of  the  house,  they  had  the  least  to  do  with  Chris- 
tophe. They  had  hardly  met,  and  they  had  never  spoken  to  each 
other. 

She  was  a  tall  woman,  thin,  but  with  a  good  figure;  she  had 
fine  brown  eyes,  dull  and  rather  inexpressive,  though  every  now 
and  then  there  glowed  in  them  a  hard,  mournful  light.  Her 
face  was  sallow  and  her  complexion  waxy:  her  cheeks  were 
hollow  and  her  lips  were  tightly  compressed.  The  elder 
Madame  Germain  was  a  devout  lady,  and  spent  all  her  time  at 
church.  The  younger  woman  lived  in  jealous  isolation  in  her 
grief.  She  took  no  interest  in  anything  or  anybody.  She  sur- 
rounded herself  with  portraits  and  pictures  of  her  little  girl, 
and  by  dint  of  staring  at  them  she  had  ceased  to  see  her  as 
she  was :  the  photographs  and  dead  presentments  had  killed  the 
living  image  of  the  child.  She  had  ceased  to  see  her  as  she 
was,  but  she  clung  to  it :  she  was  determined  to  think  of  nothing 
but  the  child :  and  so,  in  the  end,  she  reached  a  point  at  which 
she  could  not  even  think  of  her:  she  had  completed  the  work 
of  death.  There  she  stopped,  frozen,  with  her  heart  turned  to 
stone,  with  no  tears  to  shed,  with  her  life  withered.  Beligion 
was  no  aid  to  her.  She  went  through  the  formalities,  but  her 
heart  was  not  in  them,  and  therefore  she  had  no  living  faith: 
she  gave  money  for  Masses,  but  she  took  no  active  part  in  any 
of  the  work  of  the  Church :  her  whole  religion  was  centered  in 
the  one  thought  of  seeing  her  child  again.  "What  did  the  rest 
matter?  God?  What  had  she  to  do  with  God?  To  see  her 
child  again,  only  to  see  her  again.  .  .  .  And  she  was  by  no 
means  sure  that  she  would  do  so.  She  wished  to  believe  it, 


THE  HOUSE  441 

willed  it  hardly,  desperately:  but  she  was  in  doubt.  .  .  .  She 
could  not  bear  to  see  other  children,  and  used  to  think : 

"  Why  are  they  not  dead  too  ?  " 

In  the  neighborhood  there  was  a  little  girl  who  in  figure  and 
manner  was  like  her  own.  When  she  saw  her  from  behind,  with 
her  little  pigtails  down  her  back,  she  used  to  tremble.  She  would 
follow  her,  and,  when  the  child  turned  round  and  she  saw  that  it 
was  not  she,  she  would  long  to  strangle  her.  She  used  to  com- 
plain that  the  Elsberger  children  made  a  noise  below  her,  though 
they  were  very  quiet,  and  even  very  subdued  by  their  up-bring- 
ing: and  when  the  unhappy  children  began  to  play  about  their 
room,  she  would  send  her  maid  to  ask  her  neighbors  to  make 
them  be  quiet.  Christophe  met  her  once  as  he  was  coming  in 
with  the  little  girls,  and  was  hurt  and  horrified  by  the  hard 
way  in  which  she  looked  at  them. 

One  summer  evening  when  the  poor  woman  was  sitting  in  the 
dark  in  the  self-hypnotized  condition  of  the  utter  emptiness  of 
her  living  death,  she  heard  Christophe  playing.  It  was  his  habit 
to  sit  at  the  piano  in  the  half-light,  musing  and  improvising. 
His  music  irritated  her,  for  it  disturbed  the  empty  torpor  into 
which  she  had  sunk.  She  shut  the  window  angrily.  The  music 
penetrated  through  to  her  room.  Madame  Germain  was  filled 
with  a  sort  of  hatred  for  it.  She  would  have  been  glad  to  stop 
Christophe,  but  she  had  no  right  to  do  so.  Thereafter,  every 
day  at  the  same  time  she  sat  waiting  impatiently  and  irritably 
for  the  music  to  begin :  and  when  it  was  later  than  usual  her 
irritation  was  only  the  more  acute.  In  spite  of  herself,  she 
had  to  follow  the  music  through  to  the  end,  and  when  it  was 
over  she  found  it  hard  to  sink  back  into  her  usual  apathy. — And 
one  evening,  when  she  was  curled  up  in  a  corner  of  her  dark 
room,  and,  through  the  walls  and  the  closed  window,  the  distant 
music  reached  her,  that  light-giving  music  .  .  .  she  felt  a 
thrill  run  through  her,  and  once  more  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 
She  went  and  opened  the  window,  and  stood  there  listening  and 
weeping.  The  music  was  like  rain  drop  by  drop  falling  upon 
her  poor  withered  heart,  and  giving  it  new  life.  Once  more  she 


442  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

could  see  the  sky,  the  stars,  the  summer  night :  within  herself  she 
felt  the  dawning  of  a  new  interest  in  life,  as  yet  only  a  poor, 
pale  light,  vague  and  sorrowful  sympathy  for  others.  And  that 
night,  for  the  first  time  for  many  months,  the  image  of  her 
little  girl  came  to  her  in  her  dreams. — For  the  surest  road  to 
bring  us  near  the  beloved  dead,  the  best  means  of  seeing  them 
again,  is  not  to  go  with  them  into  death,  but  to  live.  They  live 
in  our  lives,  and  die  with  us. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  meet  Christophe.  Rather  she  avoided 
him.  But  she  used  to  hear  him  go  by  on  the  stairs  with  the 
children:  and  she  would  stand  in  hiding  behind  her  door  to 
listen  to  their  babyish  prattle,  which  so  moved  her  heart. 

One  day,  as  she  was  going  out,  she  heard  their  little  padding 
footsteps  coming  down  the  stairs,  rather  more  noisily  than 
usual,  and  the  voice  of  one  of  the  children  saying  to  her 
sister : 

"  Don't  make  so  much  noise,  Lucette.  Christophe  says  you 
mustn't  because  of  the  sorrowful  lady." 

And  the  other  child  began  to  walk  more  quietly  and  to  talk 
in  a  whisper.  Then  Madame  Germain  could  not  restrain  her- 
self :  she  opened  the  door,  and  took  the  children  in  her  arms,  and 
hugged  them  fiercely.  They  were  afraid :  one  of  the  children 
began  to  cry.  She  let  them  go,  and  went  back  into  her  own 
room. 

After  that,  whenever  she  met  them,  she  used  to  try  to  smile 
at  them,  a  poor  withered  smile, —  (for  she  had  grown  unused  to 
smiling)  : — she  would  speak  to  them  awkwardly  and  affection- 
ately, and  the  children  would  reply  shyly  in  timid,  bashful 
whispers.  They  were  still  afraid  of  the  sorrowful  lady,  more 
afraid  than  ever :  and  now,  whenever  they  passed  the  door,  they 
used  to  run  lest  she  should  come  out  and  catch  them.  She  used 
to  hide  to  catch  sight  of  them  as  they  passed.  She  would  have 
been  ashamed  to  be  seen  talking  to  the  children.  She  was 
ashamed  in  her  own  eyes.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  rob- 
bing her  own  dead  child  of  some  of  the  love  to  which  she 
only  was  entitled.  She  would  kneel  down  and  pray  for  her 


THE  HOUSE  -443 

forgiveness.  But  now  that  the  instinct  for  life  and  love  was 
newly  awakened  in  her,  she  could  not  resist  it:  it  was  stronger 
than  herself. 

One  evening,  as  Christophe  came  in,  he  saw  that  there  was 
an  unusual  commotion  in  the  house.  He  met  a  tradesman,  who 
told  him  that  the  tenant  of  the  third  floor,  M.  Watelet,  had  just 
died  suddenly  of  angina  pectoris.  Christophe  was  filled  with 
pity,  not  so  much  for  his  unhappy  neighbor  as  for  the  child 
who  was  left  alone  in  the  world.  M.  Watelet  was  not  known 
to  have  any  relations,  and  there  was  every  reason  to  helieve  that 
he  had  left  the  girl  almost  entirely  unprovided  for.  Christophe 
raced  upstairs,  and  went  into  the  flat  on  the  third  floor,  the 
door  of  which  was  open.  He  found  the  Abbe  Corneille  with 
the  body,  and  the  child  in  tears,  crying  to  her  father :  the  house- 
keeper was  making  clumsy  efforts  to  console  her.  Christophe 
took  the  child  in  his  arms  and  spoke  to  her  tenderly.  She  clung 
to  him  desperately :  he  could  not  think  of  leaving  her :  he  wanted 
to  take  her  away,  but  she  would  not  let  him.  He  stayed  with 
her.  He  sat  near  the  window  in  the  dying  light  of  day,  and 
went  on  rocking  her  in  his  arms  and  speaking  to  her  softly. 
The  child  gradually  grew  calmer,  and  went  to  sleep,  still  sob- 
bing. Christophe  laid  her  on  her  bed,  and  tried  awkwardly  to 
undress  her  and  undo  the  laces  of  her  little  shoes.  It  was  night- 
fall. The  door  of  the  flat  had  been  left  open.  A  shadow  en- 
tered with  a  rustling  of  skirts.  In  the  fading  light  Christophe 
recognized  the  fevered  eyes  of  the  sorrowful  lady.  He  was 
amazed.  She  stood  by  the  door,  and  said  thickly : 

"  I  came.  .  .  .  Will  you  .  .  .  will  you  let  me  take 
her?" 

Christophe  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it.  Madame  Germain 
was  in  tears.  Then  she  sat  by  the  bedside.  And,  a  moment 
later,  she  said: 

"  Let  me  stay  with  her.   ..." 

Christophe  went  up  to  his  own  room  with  the  Abbe  Corneille. 
The  priest  was  a  little  embarrassed,  and  begged  his  pardon  for 
coming  up.  He  hoped,  he  said,  humbly,  that  the  dead  man 


444  'JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

would  have  nothing  to  reproach  him  with :  he  had  gone,  not  as 
a  priest,  but  as  a  friend.  Christophe  was  too  much  moved  to 
speak,  and  left  him  with  an  affectionate  shake  of  the  hand. 

Next  morning,  when  Christophe  went  down,  he  found  the 
child  with  her  arms  round  Madame  Germain's  neck,  with  the 
nai've  confidence  which  makes  children  surrender  absolutely  to 
those  who  have  won  their  affection.  She  was  glad  to  go  with 
her  new  friend.  .  .  .  Alas!  she  had  soon  forgotten  her 
adopted  father.  She  showed  just  the  same  affection  for  her 
new  mother.  That  was  not  very  comforting.  Did  Madame 
Germain,  in  the  egoism  of  her  love,  see  it?  .  .  .  Perhaps. 
But  what  did  it  matter?  The  thing  is  to  love.  That  way  lies 
happiness.  .  .  . 

A  few  weeks  after  the  funeral  Madame  Germain  took  the 
child  into  the  country,  far  away  from  Paris.  Christophe  and 
Olivier  saw  them  off.  The  woman  had  an  expression  of  con- 
tentment and  secret  joy  which  they  had  never  known  in  her  be- 
fore. She  paid  no  attention  to  them.  However,  just  as  they 
were  going,  she  noticed  Christophe,  and  held  out  her  hand,  and 
said: 

"  It  was  you  who  saved  me." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  woman?"  asked  Christophe  in 
amazement,  as  they  were  going  upstairs  after  her  departure. 

A  few  days  later  the  post  brought  him  a  photograph  of  a 
little  girl  whom  he  did  not  know,  sitting  on  a  stool,  with  her 
little  hands  sagely  folded  in  her  lap,  while  she  looked  up  at  him 
with  clear,  sad  eyes.  Beneath  it  were  written  these  words: 

"  With  thanks  from  my  dear,  dead  child." 

Thus  it  was  that  the  breath  of  life  passed  into  all  these  peo- 
ple. In  the  attic  on  the  fifth  floor  was  a  great  and  mighty  flame 
of  humanity,  the  warmth  and  light  of  which  were  slowly  filtered 
through  the  house. 

But  Christophe  saw  it  not.  To  him  the  process  was  very 
slow. 

"  Ah ! "  he  would  sigh,  "  if  one  could  only  bring  these  good 


THE  HOUSE  445 

people  together,  all  these  people  of  all  classes  and  every  kind  of 
belief,  who  refuse  to  know  each  other !  Can't  it  be  done  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  said  Olivier.  "  You  would  need  to 
have  mutual  tolerance  and  a  power  of  sympathy  which  can  only 
come  from  inward  joy, — the  joy  of  a  healthy,  normal,  har- 
monious existence, — the  joy  of  having  a  useful  outlet  for  one's 
activity,  of  feeling  that  one's  efforts  are  not  wasted,  and  that 
one  is  serving  some  great  purpose.  You  would  need  to  have  a 
prosperous  country,  a  nation  at  the  height  of  greatness,  or — 
(better  still) — on  the  road  to  greatness.  And  you  must  also 
have — (the  two  things  go  together) — a  power  which  could  em- 
ploy all  the  nation's  energies,  an  intelligent  and  strong  power, 
which  would  be  above  party.  Now,  there  is  no  power  above 
party  save  that  which  finds  its  strength  in  itself — not  in  the 
multitude,  that  power  which  seeks  not  the  support  of  anarchical 
majorities, — as  it  does  nowadays  when  it  is  no  more  than  a  well- 
trained  dog  in  the  hands  of  second-rate  men,  and  bends  all  to 
its  will  by  service  rendered :  the  victorious  general,  the  dictator- 
ship of  Public  Safety,  the  supremacy  of  the  intelligence  .  .  . 
what  you  will.  It  does  not  depend  on  us.  You  must  have  the 
opportunity  and  the  men  capable  of  seizing  it:  you  must  have 
happiness  and  genius.  Let  us  wait  and  hope!  The  forces  are 
there :  the  forces  of  faith,  knowledge,  work,  old  France  and  new 
France,  and  the  greater  France.  .  .  .  What  an  upheaval  it 
would  be,  if  the  word  were  spoken,  the  magic  word  which  should 
let  loose  these  forces  all  together!  Of  course,  neither  you  nor 
I  can  say  the  word.  Who  will  say  it  ?  Victory  ?  Glory  ?  .  .  . 
Patience !  The  chief  thing  is  for  the  strength  of  the  nation  to 
be  gathered  together,  and  not  to  rust  away,  and  not  to  lose 
heart  before  the  time  comes.  Happiness  and  genius  only  come 
to  those  peoples  who  have  earned  them  by  ages  of  stoic  patience, 
and  labor,  and  faith." 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  said  Christophe.  "  They  often  come  sooner 
than  we  think — just  when  we  expect  them  least.  You  are  count- 
ing too  much  on  the  work  of  ages.  Make  ready.  Gird  your 
loins.  Always  be  prepared  with  your  shoes  on  your  feet  and 


446  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

your  staff  in  your  hand.   .    .    .     For  you  do  not  know  that  the 
Lord  will  not  pass  your  doors  this  very  night." 

The  Lord  came  very  near  that  night.  His  shadow  fell  upon 
the  threshold  of  the  house. 

Following  on  a  sequence  of  apparently  insignificant  events, 
relations  between  France  and  Germany  suddenly  became 
strained:  and,  in  a  few  days,  the  usual  neighborly  attitude 
of  banal  courtesy  passed  into  the  provocative  mood  which  pre- 
cedes war.  There  was  nothing  surprising  in  this,  except  to 
those  who  were  living  under  the  illusion  that  the  world  is  gov- 
erned by  reason.  But  there  were  many  such  in  France:  and 
numbers  of  people  were  amazed  from  day  to  day  to  see  the  vehe- 
ment Gallophobia  of  the  German  Press  becoming  rampant  with 
the  usual  quasi-unanimity.  Certain  of  those  newspapers  which, 
in  the  two  countries,  arrogate  to  themselves  a  monopoly  of  patri- 
otism, and  speak  in  the  nation's  name,  and  dictate  to  the  State, 
sometimes  with  the  secret  complicity  of  the  State,  the  policy 
it  should  follow,  launched  forth  insulting  ultimatums  to  France. 
There  was  a  dispute  between  Germany  and  England;  and  Ger- 
many did  not  admit  the  right  of  France  not  to  interfere :  the  in- 
solent newspapers  called  upon  her  to  declare  for  Germany,  or  else 
threatened  to  make  her  pay  the  chief  expenses  of  the  war :  they 
presumed  that  they  could  wrest  alliance  from  her  fears,  and 
already  regarded  her  as  a  conquered  and  contented  vassal, — to 
be  frank,  like  Austria.  It  only  showed  the  insane  vanity  of 
German  Imperialism,  drunk  with  victory,  and  the  absolute  in- 
capacity of  German  statesmen  to  understand  other  races,  so  that 
they  were  always  applying  the  simple  common  measure  which 
was  law  for  themselves :  Force,  the  supreme  reason.  Naturally, 
such  a  brutal  demand,  made  of  an  ancient  nation,  rich  in  its 
past  ages  of  a  glory  and  a  supremacy  in  Europe,  such  as  Ger- 
many had  never  known,  had  had  exactly  the  opposite  effect 
to  that  which  Germany  expected.  It  had  provoked  their  slum- 


THE  HOUSE  447 

bering  pride :  France  was  shaken  from,  top  to  base :  and  even 
the  most  diffident  of  the  French  roared  with  anger. 

The  great  mass  of  the  German  people  had  nothing  at  all  to 
do  with  the  provocation:  they  were  shocked  by  it:  the  honest 
men  of  every  country  ask  only  to  be  allowed  to  live  in  peace :  and 
the  people  of  Germany  are  particularly  peaceful,  affectionate, 
anxious  to  be  on  good  terms  with  everybody,  and  much  more  in- 
clined to  admire  and  emulate  other  nations  than  to  go  to  war 
with  them.  But  the  honest  men  of  a  nation  are  not  asked  for 
their  opinion:  and  they  are  not  bold  enough  to  give  it.  Those 
who  are  not  virile  enough  to  take  public  action  are  inevitably 
condemned  to  be  its  pawns.  They  are  the  magnificent  and  un- 
thinking echo  which  casts  back  the  snarling  cries  of  the  Press 
and  the  defiance  of  their  leaders,  and  swells  them  into  the  Mar- 
seillaise, or  the  Wacht  am  Rhein. 

It  was  a  terrible  blow  to  Christophe  and  Olivier.  They  were 
so  used  to  living  in  mutual  love  that  they  could  not  understand 
why  their  countries  did  not  do  the  same.  Neither  of  them  could 
grasp  the  reasons  for  the  persistent  hostility,  which  was  now  so 
suddenly  brought  to  the  surface,  especially  Christophe,  who,  be- 
ing a  German,  had  no  sort  of  ground  for  ill-feeling  against  the 
people  whom  his  own  people  had  conquered.  Although  he  him- 
self was  shocked  by  the  intolerable  vanity  of  some  of  his  fellow- 
countrymen,  and,  up  to  a  certain  point,  was  entirely  with  the 
French  against  such  a  high-handed  Brunswicker  demand,  he 
could  not  understand  why  France  should,  after  all,  be  unwilling 
to  enter  into  an  alliance  with  Germany.  The  two  countries 
seemed  to  him  to  have  so  many  deep-seated  reasons  for  being 
united,  so  many  ideas  in  common,  and  such  great  tasks  to  ac- 
complish together,  that  it  annoyed  him  to  see  them  persisting  in 
their  wasteful,  sterile  ill-feeling.  Like  all  Germans,  he  regarded 
France  as  the  most  to  blame  for  the  misunderstanding:  for, 
though  he  was  quite  ready  to  admit  that  it  was  painful  for 
her  to  sit  still  under  the  memory  of  her  defeat,  yet  that  was, 
after  all,  only  a  matter  of  vanity,  which  should  be  set  aside  in 
the  higher  interests  of  civilization  and  of  France  herself.  He 


448  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAKIS 

had  never  taken  the  trouble  to  think  out  the  problem  of  Alsace 
and  Lorraine.  At  school  he  had  been  taught  to  regard  the  an- 
nexation of  those  countries  as  an  act  of  justice,  by  which,  after 
centuries  of  foreign  subjection,  a  German  province  had  been 
restored  to  the  German  flag.  And  so,  he  was  brought  down  with 
a  run,  and  he  discovered  that  his  friend  regarded  the  annexation 
as  a  crime.  He  had  never  even  spoken  to  him  about  these 
things,  so  convinced  was  he  that  they  were  of  the  same  opinion : 
and  now  he  found  Olivier,  of  whose  good  faith  and  broad- 
mindedness  he  was  certain,  telling  him,  dispassionately,  without 
anger  and  with  profound  sadness,  that  it  was  possible  for  a 
great  people  to  renounce  the  thought  of  vengeance  for  such  a 
crime,  but  quite  impossible  for  them  to  subscribe  to  it  without 
dishonor. 

They  had  great  difficulty  in  understanding  each  other. 
Olivier's  historical  argument,  alleging  the  right  of  France  to 
claim  Alsace  as  a  Latin  country,  made  no  impression  on  Chris- 
tophe:  there  were  just  as  good  arguments  to  the  contrary:  his- 
tory can  provide  politics  with  every  sort  of  argument  in  every 
sort  of  cause.  Christophe  was  much  more  accessible  to  the 
human,  and  not  only  French,  aspect  of  the  problem.  Whether 
the  Alsatians  were  or  were  not  Germans  was  not  the  question. 
They  did  not  wish  to  be  Germans :  and  that  was  all  that  mat- 
tered. What  nation  has  the  right  to  say :  "  These  people  are 
mine :  for  they  are  my  brothers  "  ?  If  the  brothers  in  question 
renounce  that  nation,  though  they  be  a  thousand  times  in  the 
wrong,  the  consequences  of  the  breach  must  always  be  borne 
by  the  party  who  has  failed  to  win  the  love  of  the  other,  and 
therefore  has  lost  the  right  to  presume  to  bind  the  other's 
fortunes  up  with  his  own.  After  forty  years  of  strained  rela- 
tions, vexations,  patent  or  disguised,  and  even  of  real  advantage 
gained  from  the  exact  and  intelligent  administration  of  Ger- 
many, the  Alsatians  persist  in  their  refusal  to  become  Germans : 
and,  though  they  might  give  in  from  sheer  exhaustion,  nothing 
could  ever  wipe  out  the  memory  of  the  sufferings  of  the  gen- 
erations, forced  to  live  in  exile  from  their  native  land,  or,  what 


THE  HOUSE  449 

is  even  more  pitiful,  unable  to  leave  it,  and  compelled  to  bend 
under  a  yoke  which  was  hateful  to  them,  and  to  submit  to  the 
seizure  of  their  country  and  the  slavery  of  their  people. 

Christophe  naively  confessed  that  he  had  never  seen  the 
matter  in  that  light:  and  he  was  considerably  perturbed  by  it. 
And  honest  Germans  always  bring  to  a  discussion  an  integrity 
which  does  not  always  go  with  the  passionate  self-esteem  of  a 
Latin,  however  sincere  he  may  be.  It  never  occurred  to  Chris- 
tophe to  support  his  .argument  by  the  citation  of  similar  crimes 
perpetrated  by  all  nations  all  through  the  history  of  the  world. 
He  was  too  proud  to  fall  back  upon  any  such  humiliating  ex- 
cuse: he  knew  that,  as  humanity  advances,  its  crimes  become 
more  odious,  for  they  stand  in  a  clearer  light.  But  he  knew  also 
that  if  France  were  victorious  in  her  turn  she  would  be  no  more 
moderate  in  the  hour  of  victory  than  Germany  had  been,  and 
that  yet  another  link  would  be  added  to  the  chain  of  the  crimes 
of  the  nations.  So  the  tragic  conflict  would  drag  on  for  ever,  in 
which  the  best  elements  of  European  civilization  were  in  danger 
of  being  lost. 

Though  the  subject  was  terribly  painful  for  Christophe,  it 
was  even  more  so  for  Olivier.  It  meant  for  him,  not  only  the 
sorrow  of  a  great  fratricidal  struggle  between  the  two  nations 
best  fitted  for  alliance  together.  In  France  the  nation  was  di- 
vided, and  one  faction  was  preparing  to  fight  the  other.  For 
years  pacific  and  anti-militarist  doctrines  had  been  spread  and 
propagated  both  by  the  noblest  and  the  vilest  elements  of  the 
nation.  The  Government  had  for  a  long  time  held  aloof,  with 
the  weak-kneed  dilettantism  with  which  it  handled  everything 
which  did  not  concern  the  immediate  interests  of  the  politicians : 
and  it  never  occurred  to  it  that  it  might  be  less  dangerous 
frankly  to  maintain  the  most  dangerous  doctrines  than  to  leave 
them  free  to  creep  into  the  veins  of  the  people  and  ruin  their 
capacity  for  war,  while  armaments  were  being  prepared.  These 
doctrines  appealed  to  the  Free  Thinkers  who  were  dreaming  of 
founding  a  European  brotherhood,  working  all  together  to  make 
the  world  more  just  and  human.  They  appealed  also  to  the 


450  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

selfish  cowardice  of  the  rabble,  who  were  unwilling  to  endanger 
their  skins  for  anything  or  anybody. — These  ideas  had  been 
taken  up  by  Olivier  and  many  of  his  friends.  Once  or  twice, 
in  his  rooms,  Christophe  had  been  present  at  discussions  which 
had  amazed  him.  His  friend  Mooch,  who  was  stuffed  full  of 
humanitarian  illusions,  used  to  say,  with  eyes  blazing,  quite 
calmly,  that  war  must  be  abolished,  and  that  the  best  way  of 
setting  about  it  was  to  incite  the  soldiers  to  mutiny,  and,  if 
necessary,  to  shoot  down  their  leaders :  and  he  would  insist  that 
it  was  bound  to  succeed.  Elie  Elsberger  would  reply,  coldly 
and  vehemently,  that,  if  war  were  to  break  out,  he  and  his  friends 
would  not  set  out  for  the  frontier  before  they  had  settled  their 
account  with  the  enemy  at  home.  Andre  Elsberger  would  take 
Mooch's  part.  .  .  .  One  day  Christophe  came  in  for  a  ter- 
rible scene  between  the  two  brothers.  They  threatened  to  shoot 
each  other.  Although  their  bloodthirsty  words  were  spoken  in 
a  bantering  tone,  he  had  a  feeling  that  neither  of  them  had  ut- 
tered a  single  threat  which  he  was  not  prepared  to  put  into  ac- 
tion. Christophe  was  amazed  when  he  thought  of  a  race  of 
men  so  absurd  as  to  be  always  ready  to  commit  suicide  for  the 
sake  of  ideas.  .  .  .  Madmen.  Crazy  logicians.  And  yet 
they  are  good  men.  Each  man  sees  only  his  own  ideas,  and 
wishes  to  follow  them  through  to  the  end,  without  turning  aside 
by  a  hair's  breadth.  And  it  is  all  quite  useless:  for  they  crush 
each  other  out  of  existence.  The  humanitarians  wage  war  on 
the  patriots.  The  patriots  wage  war  on  the  humanitarians. 
And  meanwhile  the  enemy  comes  and  destroys  both  country  and 
humanity  in  one  swoop. 

"But  tell  me,"  Christophe  would  ask  Andre  Elsberger,  "are 
you  in  touch  with  the  proletarians  of  the  rest  of  the  nations  ?  " 

"  Some  one  has  to  begin.  And  we  are  the  people  to  do  it. 
We  have  always  been  the  first.  It  is  for  us  to  give  the 
signal ! " 

"  And  suppose  the  others  won't  follow !  " 

«  They  will." 

"  Have  you  made  treaties,  and  drawn  up  a  plan  ?  " 


THE  HOUSE  451 

"What's  the  good  of  treaties?  Our  force  is  superior  to 
diplomacy." 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  ideas:  it's  a  question  of  strategy. 
If  you  are  going  to  destroy  war,  you  must  borrow  the  methods 
of  war.  Draw  up  your  plan  of  campaign  in  the  two  countries. 
Arrange  that  on  such  and  such  a  date  in  France  and  Germany 
your  allied  troops  shall  take  such  and  such  a  step.  But,  if  you 
go  to  work  without  a  plan,  how  can  you  expect  any  good  to 
come  of  it?  With  chance  on  the  one  hand,  and  tremendous 
organized  forces  on  the  other — the  result  would  never  be  in 
doubt :  you  would  be  crushed  out  of  existence." 

Andre  Elsberger  did  not  listen.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  took  refuge  in  vague  threats:  a  handful  of  sand,  he  said, 
was  enough  to  smash  the  whole  machine,  if  it  were  dropped  into 
the  right  place  in  the  gears. 

But  it  is  one  thing  to  discuss  at  leisure,  theoretically,  and  quite 
another  to  have  to  put  one's  ideas  into  practice,  especially  when 
one  has  to  make  up  one's  mind  quickly.  .  .  .  Those  are 
frightful  moments  when  the  great  tide  surges  through  the 
depths  of  the  hearts  of  men !  They  thought  they  were  free  and 
masters  of  their  thoughts!  But  now,  in  spite  of  themselves, 
they  are  conscious  of  being  dragged  onwards,  onwards.  .  .  . 
An  obscure  power  of  will  is  set  against  their  will.  Then  they 
discover  that  it  is  not  they  who  exist  in  reality,  not  they,  but 
that  unknown  Force,  whose  laws  govern  the  whole  ocean  of 
humanity.  .  .  . 

Men  of  the  firmest  intelligence,  men  the  most  secure  in  their 
faith,  now  saw  it  dissolve  at  the  first  puff  of  reality,  and  stood 
turning  this  way  and  that,  not  daring  to  make  up  their  minds, 
and  often,  to  their  immense  surprise,  deciding  upon  a  course  of 
action  entirely  different  from  any  that  they  had  foreseen.  Some 
of  the  most  eager  to  abolish  war  suddenly  felt  a  vigorous  pas- 
sionate pride  in  their  country  leap  into  being  in  their  hearts. 
Christophe  found  Socialists,  and  even  revolutionary  syndicalists, 
absolutely  bowled  over  by  their  passionate  pride  in  a  duty  utterly 
foreign  to  their  temper.  At  the  very  beginning  of  the  upheaval, 


452  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

when  as  yet  he  hardly  believed  that  the  affair  could  be  serious, 
he  said  to  Andre  Elsberger,  with  his  usual  German  want  of  tact, 
that  now  was  the  moment  to  apply  his  theories,  unless  he  wanted 
Germany  to  take  France.  Andre  fumed,  and  replied  angrily : 

"  Just  you  try !  .  .  .  Swine,  you  haven't  even  guts  enough 
to  muzzle  your  Emperor  and  shake  off  the  yoke,  in  spite  of  your 
thrice-blessed  Socialist  Party,  with  its  four  hundred  thousand 
members  and  its  three  million  electors.  We'll  do  it  for  you! 
Take  us?  We'll  take  you.  ..." 

And  as  they  were  held  on  and  on  in  suspense,  they  grew  rest- 
less and  feverish.  Andre  was  in  torment.  He  knew  that  his 
faith  was  true,  and  yet  he  could  not  defend  it !  He  felt  that  he 
was  infected  by  the  moral  epidemic  which  spreads  among  the 
people  of  a  nation  the  collective  insanity  of  their  ideas,  the  ter- 
rible spirit  of  war!  It  attacked  everybody  about  Christophe, 
and  even  Christophe  himself.  They  were  no  longer  on  speaking 
terms,  and  kept  themselves  to  themselves. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  endure  such  suspense  for  long.  The 
wind  of  action  willy-nilly  sifted  the  waverers  into  one  group 
or  another.  And  one  day,  when  it  seemed  that  they  must  be  on 
the  eve  of  the  ultimatum, — when,  in  both  countries,  the  springs 
of  action  were  taut,  ready  for  slaughter,  Christophe  saw  that 
everybody,  including  the  people  in  his  own  house,  had  made  up 
their  minds.  Every  kind  of  party  was  instinctively  rallied 
round  the  detested  or  despised  Government  which  represented 
France.  Not  only  the  honest  men  of  the  various  parties:  but 
the  esthetes,  the  masters  of  depraved  art,  took  to  interpolating 
professions  of  patriotic  faith  in  their  work.  The  Jews  were 
talking  of  defending  the  soil  of  their  ancestors.  At  the  mere 
mention  of  the  flag  tears  came  to  Hamilton's  eyes.  And  they 
were  all  sincere :  they  were  all  victims  of  the  contagion.  Andre 
Elsberger  and  his  syndicalist  friends,  just  as  much  as  the  rest, 
and  even  more:  for,  being  crushed  by  necessity  and  pledged 
to  a  party  that  they  detested,  they  submitted  with  a  grim  fury 
and  a  stormy  pessimism  which  made  them  crazy  for  action. 
Aubert,  the  artisan,  torn  between  his  cultivated  humanitarian- 


THE  HOUSE  453 

ism  and  his  instinctive  chauvinism,  was  almost  beside  himself. 
After  many  sleepless  nights  he  had  at  last  found  a  formula 
which  could  accommodate  everything:  that  France  was  synony- 
mous with  Humanity.  Thereafter  he  never  spoke  to  Chris- 
tophe.  Almost  all  the  people  in  the  house  had  closed  their  doors 
to  him.  Even  the  good  Arnauds  never  invited  him.  They 
went  on  playing  music  and  surrounding  themselves  with  art: 
they  tried  to  forget  the  general  obsession.  But  they  could  not 
help  thinking  of  it.  When  either  of  them  alone  happened  to 
meet  Christophe  alone,  he  or  she  would  shake  hands  warmly, 
but  hurriedly  and  furtively.  And  if,  the  very  same  day,  Chris- 
tophe met  them  together,  they  would  pass  him  by  with  a  frigid 
bow.  On  the  other  hand,  people  who  had  not  spoken  to  each 
other  for  years  now  rushed  together.  One  evening  Olivier 
beckoned  to  Christophe  to  go  near  the  window,  and,  without  a 
word,  he  pointed  to  the  Elsbergers  talking  to  Commandant 
Chabran  in  the  garden  below. 

Christophe  had  no  time  to  be  surprised  at  such  a  revolution 
in  the  minds  of  his  friends.  He  was  too  much  occupied  with  his 
own  mind,  in  which  there  had  been  an  upheaval,  the  consequences 
of  which  he  could  not  master.  Olivier  was  much  calmer  than 
he,  though  he  had  much  more  reason  to  be  upset.  Of  all  Chris- 
tophe's  acquaintance,  he  seemed  to  be  the  only  one  to  escape 
the  contagion.  Though  he  was  oppressed  by  the  anxious  wait- 
ing for  the  outbreak  of  war,  and  the  dread  of  schism  at  home, 
which  he  saw  must  happen  in  spite  of  everything,  he  knew  the 
greatness  of  the  two  hostile  faiths  which  sooner  or  later  would 
come  to  grips:  he  knew  also  that  it  is  the  part  of  France  to 
be  the  experimental  ground  in  human  progress,  and  that  all 
new  ideas  need  to  be  watered  with  her  blood  before  they  can 
come  to  flower.  For  his  own  part,  he  refused  to  take  part  in  the 
skirmish.  While  the  civilized  nations  were  cutting  each  other's 
throats  he  was  fain  to  repeat  the  device  of  Antigone :  "  /  am 
made  for  love,  and  not  for  hate." — For  love  and  for  understand- 
ing, which  is  another  form  of  love.  His  fondness  for  Chris- 
tophe was  enough  to  make  his  duty  plain  to  him.  At  a  time 


454  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAKIS 

when  millions  of  human  beings  were  on  the  brink  of  hatred,  he 
felt  that  the  duty  and  happiness  of  friends  like  himself  and 
Christophe  was  to  love  each  other,  and  to  keep  their  reason  un- 
contaminated  by  the  general  upheaval.  He  remembered  how 
Goethe  had  refused  to  associate  himself  with  the  liberation 
movement  of  1813,  when  hatred  sent  Germany  to  march  out 
against  France. 

Christophe  felt  the  same:  and  yet  he  was  not  easy  in  his 
mind.  He  who  in  a  way  had  deserted  Germany,  and  could  not 
return  thither,  he  who  had  been  fed  with  the  European  ideas 
of  the  great  Germans  of  the  eighteenth  century,  so  dear  to  his 
old  friend  Schulz,  and  detested  the  militarist  and  commercial 
spirit  of  New  Germany,  now  found  himself  the  prey  of  gusty 
passions:  and  he  did  not  know  whither  they  would  lead  him. 
He  did  not  tell  Olivier,  but  he  spent  his  days  in  agony,  longing 
for  news.  Secretly  he  put  his  affairs  in  order  and  packed  his 
trunk.  He  did  not  reason  the  thing  out.  It  was  too  strong  for 
him.  Olivier  watched  him  anxiously,  and  guessed  the  struggle 
which  was  going  on  in  his  friend's  mind:  and  he  dared  not 
question  him.  They  felt  that  they  were  impelled  to  draw  closer 
to  each  other  than  ever,  and  they  loved  each  other  more:  but 
they  were  afraid  to  speak :  they  trembled  lest  they  should  discover 
some  difference  of  thought  which  might  come  between  them  and 
divide  them,  as  their  old  misunderstanding  had  done.  Often 
their  eyes  would  meet  with  an  expression  of  tender  anxiety,  as 
though  they  were  on  the  eve  of  parting  for  ever.  And  they 
were  silent  and  oppressed. 

But  still  on  the  roof  of  the  house  that  was  being  built  on 
the  other  side  of  the  yard,  all  through  those  days  of  gloom, 
with  the  rain  beating  down  on  them,  the  workmen  were  putting 
the  finishing  touches:  and  Christophe's  friend,  the  loquacious 
slater,  laughed  and  shouted  across : 

"  There !     The  house  is  finished !  " 

Happily,  the  storm  passed  as  quickly  as  it  had  come.  The 
chancelleries  published  bulletins  announcing  the  return  of  fair 


THE  HOUSE  455 

weather,  barometrically  as  it  were.  The  howling  dogs  of  the 
Press  were  despatched  to  their  kennels.  In  a  few  hours  the  ten- 
sion was  relieved.  It  was  a  summer  evening,  and  Christophe 
had  rushed  in  breathless  to  convey  the  good  news  to  Olivier. 
He  was  happy,  and  could  breathe  again.  Olivier  looked  at  him 
with  a  little  sad  smile.  And  he  dared  not  ask  him  the  question 
that  lay  next  his  heart.  He  said : 

"Well:  you  have  seen  them  all  united,  all  these  people  who 
could  not  understand  each  other." 

"Yes,"  said  Christophe  good-humoredly,  "I  have  seen  them 
united.  You're  such  humbugs!  You  all  cry  out  upon  each 
other,  but  at  bottom  you're  all  of  the  same  mind." 

"  You  seem  to  be  glad  of  it,"  remarked  Olivier. 

"  Why  not  ?  Because  they  were  united  at  my  expense  ?  .  .  . 
Bah!  I'm  strong  enough  for  that.  .  .  .  Besides,  it's  a  fine 
thing  to  feel  the  mighty  torrent  rushing  you  along,  and  the 
demons  that  were  let  loose  in  your  hearts.  ..." 

"  They  terrify  me,"  said  Olivier.  "  I  would  rather  have 
eternal  solitude  than  have  my  people  united  at  such  a  cost." 

They  relapsed  into  silence:  and  neither  of  them  dared  ap- 
proach the  subject  which  was  troubling  them.  At  last  Olivier 
pulled  himself  together,  and,  in  a  choking  voice,  said : 

"  Tell  me  frankly,  Christophe :  you  were  going  away  ?  " 

Christophe  replied : 

"  Yes." 

Olivier  was  sure  that  he  would  say  it.  And  yet  his  heart 
ached  for  it.  He  said : 

"  Tell  me,  Christophe :  could  you  .    .    .  could  you  .    .    .  ?  " 

Christophe  drew  his  hand  over  his  forehead  and  said : 

"  Don't  let's  talk  of  it.     I  don't  like  to  think  of  it." 

Olivier  went  on  sorrowfully: 

"  You  would  have  fought  against  us  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  never  thought  about  it." 

"  But,  in  your  heart,  you  had  decided  ?  " 

Christophe  said: 

"Yes." 


456  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"Against  me?" 

"Never  against  you.  You  are  mine.  Where  I  am,  you  are 
too." 

"  But  against  my  country  ?  " 

"  For  my  country." 

"It  is  a  terrible  thing,"  said  Olivier.  "I  love  my  country, 
as  you  do.  I  love  France:  but  could  I  slay  my  soul  for  her? 
Could  I  betray  my  conscience  for  her  ?  That  would  be  to  betray 
her.  How  could  I  hate,  having  no  hatred,  or,  without  being 
guilty  of  a  lie,  assume  a  hatred  that  I  did  not  feel  ?  The  modern 
State  was  guilty  of  a  monstrous  crime — a  crime  which  will 
prove  its  undoing — when  it  presumed  to  impose  its  brazen  laws 
on  the  free  Church  of  those  spirits  the  very  essence  of  whose 
being  is  to  love  and  understand.  Let  Caesar  be  Caesar,  but  let 
him  not  assume  the  Godhead!  Let  him  take  our  money  and 
our  lives:  over  our  souls  he  has  no  rights:  he  shall  not  stain 
them  with  blood.  We  are  in  this  world  to  give  it  light, 
not  to  darken  it :  let  each  man  fulfil  his  duty !  If  Caesar  desires 
war,  then  let  Caesar  have  armies  for  that  purpose,  armies  as  they 
were  in  olden  times,  armies  of  men  whose  trade  is  war !  I  am 
not  so  foolish  as  to  waste  my  time  in  vainly  moaning  and  groan- 
ing in  protest  against  force.  But  I  am  not  a  soldier  in  the 
army  of  force.  I  am  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  spirit:  with 
thousands  of  other  men  who  are  my  brothers-in-arms  I  represent 
France  in  that  army.  Let  Caesar  conquer  the  world  if  he  will  1 
We  march  to  the  conquest  of  truth." 

"To  conquer,"  said  Christophe,  "you  must  vanquish,  you 
must  live.  Truth  is  no  hard  dogma,  secreted  by  the  brain,  like 
a  Stalactite  by  the  walls  of  a  cave.  Truth  is  life.  It  is  not  to 
be  found  in  your  own  head,  but  to  be  sought  for  in  the  hearts  of 
others.  Attach  yourself  to  them,  be  one  with  them.  Think 
as  much  as  you  like,  but  do  you  every  day  take  a  bath  of 
humanity.  You  must  live  in  the  life  of  others  and  love  and 
bow  to  destiny." 

"  It  is  our  fate  to  be  what  we  are.  It  does  not  depend  on  us 
whether  we  shall  or  shall  not  think  certain  things,  even  though 


THE  HOUSE  457 

they  be  dangerous.  We  have  reached  such  a  pitch  of  civilization 
that  we  cannot  turn  back/' 

"Yes,  you  have  reached  the  farthest  limit  of  the  plateau  of 
civilization,  that  dizzy  height  to  which  no  nation  can  climb 
without  feeling  an  irresistible  desire  to  fling  itself  down.  Ee- 
ligion  and  instinct  are  weakened  in  you.  You  have  nothing  left 
but  intelligence.  You  are  machines  grinding  out  philosophy. 
Death  comes  rushing  in  upon  you." 

"  Death  comes  to  every  nation :  it  is  a  matter  of  centuries." 

"Have  done  with  your  centuries!  The  whole  of  life  is  a 
matter  of  days  and  hours.  If  you  weren't  such  an  infernally 
metaphysical  lot,  you'd  never  go  shuffling  over  into  the  absolute, 
instead  of  seizing  and  holding  the  passing  moment." 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  The  flame  burns  the  torch  away.  You 
can't  both  live  and  have  lived,  my  dear  Christophe." 

"You  must  live." 

"It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  been  great." 

"  It  is  only  a  great  thing  when  there  are  still  men  who  are 
alive  enough  and  great  enough  to  appreciate  it." 

"Wouldn't  you  much  rather  have  been  the  Greeks,  who  are 
dead,  than  any  of  the  people  who  are  vegetating  nowadays  ?  " 

"  I'd  much  rather  be  myself,  Christophe,  and  very  much  alive." 

Olivier  gave  up  the  argument.  It  was  not  that  he  was  without 
an  answer.  But  it  did  not  interest  him.  All  through  the  dis- 
cussion he  had  only  been  thinking  of  Christophe.  He  said,  with 
a  sigh: 

"  You  love  me  less  than  I  love  you." 

Christophe  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  tenderly : 

"Dear  Olivier,"  he  said,  "I  love  you  more  than  my  life. 
But  you  must  forgive  me  if  I  do  not  love  you  more  than  Life, 
the  sun  of  our  two  races.  I  have  a  horror  of  the  night  into 
which  your  false  progress  drags  me.  All  your  sentiments  of  re- 
nunciation are  only  the  covering  of  the  same  Buddhist  Nirvana. 
Only  action  is  living,  even  when  it  brings  death.  In  this  world 
we  can  only  choose  between  the  devouring  flame  and  night. 
In  spite  of  the  sad  sweetness  of  dreams  in  the  hour  of  twilight, 


458  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

I  have  no  desire  for  that  peace  which  is  the  forerunner  of  death. 
The  silence  of  infinite  space  terrifies  me.  Heap  more  fagots 
upon  the  fire!  More!  And  yet  more!  Myself  too,  if  needs 
must.  I  will  not  let  the  fire  dwindle.  If  it  dies  down,  there  is 
an  end  of  us,  an  end  of  everything." 

"  What  you  say  is  old,"  said  Olivier ;  "  it  comes  from  the 
depths  of  the  barbarous  past." 

He  took  down  from  his  shelves  a  book  of  Hindoo  poetry,  and 
read  the  sublime  apostrophe  'of  the  God  Krishna : 

"Arise,  and  fight  with  a  resolute  heart.  Setting  no  store  by 
pleasure  or  pain,  or  gain  or  loss,,  or  victory  or  defeat,  fight  with 
all  thy  might.  .  .  ' 

Christophe  snatched  the  book  from  his  hands  and  read : 

".  .  .  /  have  nothing  in  the  world  to  bid  me  toil:  there  is 
nothing  that  is  not  mine:  and  yet  I  cease  not  from  my  labor. 
If  I  did  not  act,  without  a  truce  and  without  relief,  setting  an 
example  for  men  to  follow,  all  men  would  perish.  If  for  a 
moment  I  were  to  cease  from  my  labors,  I  should  plunge  the 
world  in  chaos,  and  I  should  be  the  destroyer  of  life" 

"Life,"  repeated  Olivier,— " what  is  life?" 

"  A  tragedy,"  said  Christophe.     "  Hurrah !  " 

The  panic  died  down.  Every  one  hastened  to  forget,  with 
a  hidden  fear  in  their  hearts.  No  one  seemed  to  remember 
what  had  happened.  And  yet  it  was  plain  that  it  was  still  in 
their  thoughts,  from  the  joy  with  which  they  resumed  their  lives, 
the  pleasant  life  from  day  to  day,  which  is  never  truly  valued 
until  it  is  endangered.  As  usual  when  danger  is  past,  they 
gulped  it  down  with  renewed  avidity. 

Christophe  flung  himself  into  creative  work  with  tenfold 
vigor.  He  dragged  Olivier  after  him.  In  reaction  against 
their  recent  gloomy  thoughts  they  had  begun  to  collaborate  in  a 
Rabelaisian  epic.  It  was  colored  by  that  broad  materialism 
which  follows  on  periods  of  moral  stress.  To  the  legendary 
heroes — Gargantua,  Friar  John,  Panurge — Olivier  had  added, 
on  Christophe's  inspiration,  a  new  character,  a  peasant,  Jacques 


THE  HOUSE  459 

Patience,  simple,  cunning,  sly,  resigned,  who  was  the  butt  of 
the  others,  putting  up  with  it  when  he  was  thrashed  and 
robbed, — putting  up  with  it  when  they  made  love  to  his  wife, 
and  laid  waste  his  fields, — tirelessly  putting  his  house  in  order 
and  cultivating  his  land, — forced  to  follow  the  others  to  war, 
bearing  the  burden  of  the  baggage,  coming  in  for  all  the  kicks, 
and  still  putting  up  with  it, — waiting,  laughing  at  the  exploits 
of  his  masters  and  the  thrashings  they  gave  him,  and  saying, 
"  They  can't  go  on  for  ever,"  foreseeing  their  ultimate  downfall, 
looking  out  for  it  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and  silently 
laughing  at  the  thought  of  it,  with  his  great  mouth  agape. 
One  fine  day  it  turned  out  that  Gargantua  and  Friar  John 
were  drowned  while  they  were  away  on  a  crusade.  Patience 
honestly  regretted  their  loss,  merrily  took  heart  of  grace,  saved 
Panurge,  who  was  drowning  also,  and  said : 

"  I  know  that  you  will  go  on  playing  your  tricks  on  me :  you 
don't  take  me  in :  but  I  can't  do  without  you :  you  drive  away 
the  spleen,  and  make  me  laugh." 

Christophe  set  the  poem  to  music  with  great  symphonic  pic- 
tures, with  soli  and  chorus,  mock-heroic  battles,  riotous  country 
fairs,  vocal  buffooneries,  madrigals  a  la  Jannequin,  with  tre- 
mendous childlike  glee,  a  storm  at  sea,  the  Island  of  Bells,  and, 
finally,  a  pastoral  symphony,  full  of  the  air  of  the  fields,  and  the 
blithe  serenity  of  the  flutes  and  oboes,  and  the  clean-souled  folk- 
songs of  Old  France. — The  friends  worked  away  with  bound- 
less delight.  The  weakly  Olivier,  with  his  pale  cheeks,  found 
new  health  in  Christophe's  health.  Gusts  of  wind  blew  through 
their  garret.  The  very  intoxication  of  Joy!  To  be  working 
together,  heart  to  heart  with  one's  friend!  The  embrace  of 
two  lovers  is  not  sweeter  or  more  ardent  than  such  a  yoking 
together  of  two  kindred  souls.  They  were  so  near  in  sympathy 
that  often  the  same  ideas  would  flash  upon  them  at  the  same 
moment.  Or  Christophe  would  write  the  music  for  a  scene  for 
which  Olivier  would  immediately  find  words.  Christophe  im- 
petuously dragged  Olivier  along  in  his  wake.  His  mind 
swamped  that  of  his  friend,  and  made  it  fruitful. 


460  'JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

The  joy  of  creation  was  enhanced  by  that  of  success.  Hecht 
had  just  made  up  his  mind  to  publish  the  David:  and  the  score, 
well  launched,  had  had  an  instantaneous  success  abroad.  A 
great  Wagnerian  Kapellmeister,  a  friend  of  Hecht's,  who  had 
settled  in  England,  was  enthusiastic  about  it:  he  had  given  it 
at  several  of  his  concerts  with  considerable  success,  which,  with 
the  Kapellmeister's  enthusiasm,  had  carried  it  over  to  Germany, 
where  also  the  David  had  been  played.  The  Kapellmeister  had 
entered  into  correspondence  with  Christophe,  and  had  asked  him 
for  more  of  his  compositions,  offered  to  do  anything  he  could 
to  help  him,  and  was  engaged  in  ardent  propaganda  in  his 
cause.  In  Germany,  the  Iphigenia,  which  had  originally  been 
hissed,  was  unearthed,  and  it  was  hailed  as  a  work  of  genius. 
Certain  facts  in  Christophe's  life,  being  of  a  romantic  nature, 
contributed  not  a  little  to  the  spurring  of  public  interest.  The 
Frankfurter  Zeitung  was  the  first  to  publish  an  enthusiastic 
article.  Others  followed.  Then,  in  France,  a  few  people  be- 
gan to  be  aware  that  they  had  a  great  musician  in  their  midst. 
One  of  the  Parisian  conductors  asked  Christophe  for  his 
Rabelaisian  epic  before  it  was  finished:  and  Goujart,  perceiving 
his  approaching  fame,  began  to  speak  mysteriously  of  a  friend 
of  his  who  was  a  genius,  and  had  been  discovered  by  himself. 
He  wrote  a  laudatory  article  about  the  admirable  David, — en- 
tirely forgetting  that  only  the  year  before  he  had  decried  it  in  a 
short  notice  of  a  few  lines.  Nobody  else  remembered  it  either 
or  seemed  to  be  in  the  least  astonished  at  his  sudden  change. 
There  are  so  many  people  in  Paris  who  are  now  loud  in  their 
praises  of  Wagner  and  Cesar  Franck,  where  formerly  they 
roundly  abused  them,  and  actually  use  the  fame  of  these  men 
to  crush  those  new  artists  whom  to-morrow  they  will  be  lauding 
to  the  skies ! 

Christophe  did  not  set  any  great  store  on  his  success.  He 
knew  that  he  would  one  day  win  through:  but  he  had  not 
thought  that  the  day  could  be  so  near  at  hand :  and  he  was  dis- 
trustful of  so  rapid  a  triumph.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  said  that  he  wanted  to  be  left  alone.  He  could  have  under- 


THE  HOUSE  461 

stood  people  applauding  the  David  the  year  before,  when  he 
wrote  it :  but  now  he  was  so  far  beyond  it ;  he  had  climbed  higher. 
He  was  inclined  to  say  to  the  people  who  came  and  talked  about 
his  old  work : 

"  Don't  worry  me  with  that  stuff.  It  disgusts  me.  So  do  you." 
And  he  plunged  into  his  new  work  again,  rather  annoyed  at 
having  been  disturbed.  However,  he  did  feel  a  certain  secret 
satisfaction.  The  first  rays  of  the  light  of  fame  are  very 
sweet.  It  is  good,  it  is  healthy,  to  conquer.  It  is  like  the  open 
window  and  the  first  sweet  scents  of  the  spring  coming  into  a 
house. — Christophe's  contempt  for  his  old  work  was  of  no  avail, 
especially  with  regard  to  the  Iphigenia:  there  was  a  certain 
amount  of  atonement  for  him  in  seeing  that  unhappy  produc- 
tion, which  had  originally  brought  him  only  humiliation,  be- 
lauded by  the  German  critics,  and  in  great  request  with  the 
theaters,  as  he  learned  from  a  letter  from  Dresden,  in  which 
the  directors  stated  that  they  would  be  glad  to  produce  the  piece 
during  their  next  season. 

The  very  day  when  Christophe  received  the  news,  which,  after 
years  of  struggling,  at  last  opened  up  a  calmer  horizon,  with 
victory  in  the  distance,  he  had  another  letter  from  Germany. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon.  He  was  washing  his  face  and  talking 
gaily  to  Olivier  in  the  next  room,  when  the  housekeeper  slipped 
an  envelope  under  the  door.  His  mother's  writing.  .  .  .  He 
had  been  just  on  the  point  of  writing  to  her,  and  was  happy  at 
the  thought  of  being  able  to  tell  her  of  his  success,  which 
would  give  her  so  much  pleasure.  He  opened  the  letter.  There 
were  only  a  few  lines.  How  shaky  the  writing  was ! 

"My  dear  ~boy,  I  am  not  very  well.  If  it  were  possible,  I 
should  like  to  see  you  again.  Love.  (( ~-  „ 

Christophe  gave  a  groan.  Olivier,  who  was  working  in  the 
next  room,  ran  to  him  in  alarm.  Christophe  could  not  speak, 
and  pointed  to  the  letter  on  the  table.  He  went  on  groaning, 


462  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

and  did  not  listen  to  what  Olivier  said,  who  took  in  the  letter  at 
a  glance,  and  tried  to  comfort  him.  He  rushed  to  his  bed, 
where  he  had  laid  his  coat,  dressed  hurriedly,  and  without  wait- 
ing to  fasten  his  collar, — (his  hands  were  trembling  too  much)  — 
went  out.  Olivier  caught  him  up  on  the  stairs:  what  was  he 
going  to  do  ?  Go  by  the  first  train  ?  There  wasn't  one  until  the 
evening.  It  was  much  better  to  wait  there  than  at  the  station. 
Had  he  enough  money  ? — They  rummaged  through  their  pockets, 
and  when  they  counted  all  that  they  possessed  between  them, 
it  only  amounted  to  thirty  francs.  It  was  September.  Hecht, 
the  Arnauds,  all  their  friends,  were  out  of  Paris.  They  had  no 
one  to  turn  to.  Christophe  was  beside  himself,  and  talked  of 
going  part  of  the  way  on  foot.  Olivier  begged  him  to  wait  for 
an  hour,  and  promised  to  procure  the  money  somehow.  Chris- 
tophe submitted:  he  was  incapable  of  a  single  idea  himself. 
Olivier  ran  to  the  pawnshop:  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  been 
there:  for  his  own  sake,  he  would  much  rather  have  been  left 
with  nothing  than  pledge  any  of  his  possessions,  which  were  all 
associated  with  some  precious  memory:  but  it  was  for  Chris- 
tophe, and  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  He  pawned  his  watch, 
for  which  he  was  advanced  a  sum  much  smaller  than  he  had 
expected.  He  had  to  go  home  again  and  fetch  some  of  his 
books,  and  take  them  to  a  bookseller.  It  was  a  great  grief  to 
him,  but  at  the  time  he  hardly  thought  of  it:  his  mind  could 
grasp  nothing  but  Christophe's  trouble.  He  returned,  and 
found  Christophe  just  where  he  had  left  him,  sitting  by  his  desk, 
in  a  state  of  collapse.  With  their  thirty  francs  the  sum  that 
Olivier  had  collected  was  more  than  enough.  Christophe  was 
too  upset  to  think  of  asking  his  friend  how  he  had  come  by  it, 
or  whether  he  had  kept  enough  to  live  on  during  his  absence. 
Olivier  did  not  think  of  it  either :  he  had  given  Christophe  all  he 
possessed.  He  had  to  look  after  Christophe,  just  like  a  child, 
until  it  was  time  for  him  to  go.  He  took  him  to  the  station, 
and  never  left  him  until  the  train  began  to  move. 

In  the  darkness  into  which  he  was  rushing  Christophe  sat 
wide-eyed,  staring  straight  in  front  of  him  and  thinking : 


THE  HOUSE  463 

"Shall  I  be  in  time?" 

He  knew  that  his  mother  must  have  been  unable  to  wait 
for  her  to  write  to  him.  And  in  his  fevered  anxiety  he  was  im- 
patient of  the  jolting  speed  of  the  express.  He  reproached  him- 
self bitterly  for  having  left  Louisa.  And  at  the  same  time  he 
felt  how  vain  were  his  reproaches:  he  had  no  power  to  change 
the  course  of  events. 

However,  the  monotonous  rocking  of  the  wheels  and  springs 
of  the  carriage  soothed  him  gradually,  and  took  possession  of 
his  mind,  like  tossing  waves  of  music  dammed  back  by  a  mighty 
rhythm.  He  lived  through  all  his  past  life  again  from  the  far- 
distant  days  of  his  childhood:  loves,  hopes,  disillusion,  sorrows, 
— and  that  exultant  force,  that  intoxication  of  suffering,  enjoy- 
ing, and  creating,  that  delight  in  blotting  out  the  light  of  life 
and  its  sublime  shadows,  which  was  the  soul  of  his  soul,  the 
living  breath  of  the  God  within  him.  Now  as  he  looked  back  on 
it  all  was  clear.  His  tumultuous  desires,  his  uneasy  thoughts, 
his  faults,  mistakes,  and  headlong  struggles,  now  seemed  to 
him  to  be  the  eddy  and  swirl  borne  on  by  the  great  current  of 
life  towards  its  eternal  goal.  He  discovered  the  profound  mean- 
ing of  those  years  of  trial :  each  test  was  a  barrier  which  was 
burst  by  the  gathering  waters  of  the  river,  a  passage  from  a 
narrow  to  a  wider  valley,  which  the  river  would  soon  fill:  al- 
ways he  came  to  a  wider  view  and  a  freer  air.  Between  the  ris- 
ing ground  of  France  and  the  German  plain  the  river  had  carved 
its  way,  not  without  many  a  struggle,  flooding  the  meadows, 
eating  away  the  base  of  the  hills,  gathering  and  absorbing  all 
the  waters  of  the  two  countries.  So  it  flowed  between  them, 
not  to  divide,  but  to  unite  them :  in  it  they  were  wedded.  And 
for  the  first  time  Christophe  became  conscious  of  his  destiny, 
which  was  to  carry  through  the  hostile  peoples,  like  an  artery, 
all  the  forces  of  life  of  the  two  sides  of  the  river. — A  strange 
serenity,  a  sudden  calm  and  clarity,  came  over  him,  as  sometimes 
happens  in  the  darkest  hours.  .  .  .  Then  the  vision  faded, 
and  he  saw  nothing  but  the  tender,  sorrowful  face  of  his  old 
mother. 


464  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

It  was  hardly  dawn  when  he  reached  the  little  German  town. 
He  had  to  take  care  not  to  be  recognized,  for  there  was  still  a 
warrant  of  arrest  out  against  him.  But  nobody  at  the  station 
took  any  notice  of  him:  the  town  was  asleep:  the  houses  were 
shut  up  and  the  streets  deserted:  it  was  the  gray  hour  when 
the  lights  of  the  night  are  put  out  and  the  light  of  day  is  not 
yet  come, — the  hour  when  sleep  is  sweetest  and  dreams  are  lit 
with  the  pale  light  of  the  east.  A  little  servant-girl  was  taking 
down  the  shutters  of  a  shop  and  singing  an  old  German  folk- 
song. Christophe  almost  choked  with  emotion.  0  Fatherland! 
Beloved !  .  .  .  He  was  fain  to  kiss  the  earth  as  he  heard  the 
humble  song  that  set  his  heart  aching  in  his  breast ;  he  felt  how 
unhappy  he  had  been  away  from  his  country,  and  how  much  he 
loved  it.  ...  He  walked  on,  holding  his  breath.  When  he 
saw  his  old  home  he  was  obliged  to  stop  and  put  his  hand  to  his 
lips  to  keep  himself  from  crying  out.  How  would  he  find  his 
mother,  his  mother  whom  he  had  deserted?  .  .  .  He  took  a 
long  breath  and  almost  ran  to  the  door.  It  was  ajar.  Pie 
pushed  it  open.  No  one  there.  .  .  .  The  old  wooden  stair- 
case creaked  under  his  footsteps.  He  went  up  to  the  top  floor. 
The  house  seemed  to  be  empty.  The  door  of  his  mother's  room 
was  shut. 

Christophe's  heart  thumped  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  door- 
knob. And  he  had  not  the  strength  to  open  it.  ... 

Louisa  was  alone,  in  bed,  feeling  that  the  end  was  near.  Of 
her  two  other  sons,  Eodolphe,  the  business  man,  had  settled  in 
Hamburg,  the  other,  Ernest,  had  emigrated  to  America,  and  no 
one  knew  what  had  become  of  him.  There  was  no  one  to  attend 
to  her  except  a  woman  in  the  house,  who  came  twice  a  day  to 
see  if  Louisa  wanted  anything,  stayed  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  went  about  her  business:  she  was  not  very  punctual,  and 
was  often  late  in  coming.  To  Louisa  it  seemed  quite  natural 
that  she  should  be  forgotten,  as  it  seemed  to  her  quite  natural 
to  be  ill.  She  was  used  to  suffering,  and  was  as  patient  as  an 
angel.  She  had  heart  disease  and  palpitations,  during  which 


THE  HOUSE 

she  would  think  she  was  going  to  die :  she  would  lie  with  her  eyes 
wide  open,  and  her  hands  clutching  the  bedclothes,  and  the  sweat 
dripping  down  her  face.  She  never  complained.  She  knew 
that  it  must  be  so.  She  was  ready:  she  had  already  received 
the  sacrament.  She  had  only  one  anxiety :  lest  God  should  find 
her  unworthy  to  enter  into  Paradise.  She  endured  everything 
else  in  patience. 

In  a  dark  corner  of  her  little  room,  near  her  pillow,  on  the 
wall  of  the  recess,  she  had  made  a  little  shrine  for  her  relics  and 
trophies :  she  had  collected  the  portraits  of  those  who  were  dear 
to  her:  her  three  children,  her  husband,  for  whose  memory 
she  had  always  preserved  her  love  in  its  first  freshness,  the  old 
grandfather,  and  her  brother,  Gottfried:  she  was  touchingly  de- 
voted to  all  those  who  had  been  kind  to  her,  though  it  were  never 
so  little.  On  her  coverlet,  close  to  her  eyes,  she  had  pinned 
the  last  photograph  of  himself  that  Christophe  had  sent  her :  and 
his  last  letters  were  under  her  pillow.  She  had  a  love  of  neat- 
ness and  scrupulous  tidiness,  and  it  hurt  her  to  know  that 
everything  was  not  perfectly  in  order  in  her  room.  She  listened 
for  the  little  noises  outside  which  marked  the  different  moments 
of  the  day  for  her.  It  was  so  long  since  she  had  first  heard 
them !  All  her  life  had  been  spent  in  that  narrow  space.  .  .  . 
She  thought  of  her  dear  Christophe.  How  she  longed  for  him 
to  be  there,  near  her,  just  then !  And  yet  she  was  resigned  even 
to  his  absence.  She  was  sure  that  she  would  see  him  again  on 
high.  She  had  only  to  close  her  eyes  to  see  him.  She  spent 
days  and  days,  half-unconscious,  living  in  the  past.  .  .  . 

She  would  see  once  more  the  old  house  on  the  banks  of  the 
Rhine.  ...  A  holiday.  ...  A  superb  summer  day.  The 
window  was  open:  the  white  road  lay  gleaming  under  the  sun. 
They  could  hear  the  birds  singing.  Melchior  and  the  old  grand- 
father were  sitting  by  the  front-door  smoking,  and  chatting 
and  laughing  uproariously.  Louisa  could  not  see  them :  but  she 
was  glad  that  her  husband  was  at  home  that  day,  and  that  grand- 
father was  in  such  a  good  temper.  She  was  in  the  basement, 
cooking  the  dinner:  an  excellent  dinner:  she  watched  over  it  as 


466  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

the  apple  of  her  eye :  there  was  a  surprise :  a  chestnut  cake : 
already  she  could  hear  the  boy's  shout  of  delight.  .  .  .  The 
boy,  where  was  he?  Upstairs:  she  could  hear  him  practising 
at  the  piano.  She  could  not  make  out  what  he  was  playing, 
but  she  was  glad  to  hear  the  familiar  tinkling  sounds,  and  to 
know  that  he  was  sitting  there  with  his  grave  face.  .  .  .  What 
a  lovely  day!  The  merry  jingling  bells  of  a  carriage  went  by 
on  the  road.  .  .  .  Oh!  good  heavens!  The  joint!  Perhaps 
it  had  been  burned  while  she  was  looking  out  of  the  window! 
She  trembled  lest  grandfather,  of  whom  she  was  so  fond, 
though  she  was  afraid  of  him,  should  be  dissatisfied,  and  scold 
her.  .  .  .  Thank  Heaven!  there  was  no  harm  done.  There, 
everything  was  ready,  and  the  table  was  laid.  She  called 
Melchior  and  grandfather.  They  replied  eagerly.  And  the 
boy?  .  .  .  He  had  stopped  playing.  His  music  had  ceased 
a  moment  ago  without  her  noticing  it.  .  .  . — "  Christophe !  " 
.  .  .  What  was  he  doing?  There  was  not  a  sound  to  be 
heard.  He  was  always  forgetting  to  come  down  to  dinner: 
father  was  going  to  scold  him.  She  ran  upstairs.  .  .  . — 
"  Christophe ! "  .  .  .  He  made  no  sound.  She  opened  the 
door  of  the  room  where  he  was  practising.  No  one  there.  The 
room  was  empty,  and  the  piano  was  closed.  .  .  .  Louisa  was 
seized  with  a  sudden  panic.  What  had  become  of  him?  The 
window  was  open.  Oh,  Heaven!  Perhaps  he  had  fallen  out! 
Louisa's  heart  stops.  She  leans  out  and  looks  down.  .  .  . — 
"  Christophe ! "  .  .  .  He  is  nowhere  to  be  found.  She 
rushes  all  over  the  house.  Downstairs  grandfather  shouts  to 
her :  "  Come  along ;  don't  worry ;  he'll  come  back."  She  will 
not  go  down:  she  knows  that  he  is  there:  that  he  is  hiding 
for  fun,  to  tease  her.  Oh,  naughty,  naughty  boy !  .  .  .  Yes, 
she  is  sure  of  it  now:  she  heard  the  floor  creak:  he  is  behind 
the  door.  She  tries  to  open  the  door.  But  the  key  is  gone. 
The  key !  She  rummages  through  a  drawer,  looking  for  it  in  a 
heap  of  keys.  This  one,  that.  .  .  .  No,  not  that.  .  .  . 
Ah,  that's  it!  .  .  .  She  cannot  fit  it  into  the  lock,  her  hand 
is  trembling  so.  She  is  in  such  haste :  she  must  be  quick.  Why  ? 


THE  HOUSE  467 

She  does  not  know,  but  she  knows  that  she  must  be  quick,  and 
that  if  she  doesn't  hurry  she  will  be  too  late.  She  hears  Chris- 
tophe  breathing  on  the  other  side  of  the  door.  .  .  .  Oh,  bother 
the  key!  ...  At  last!  The  door  is  opened.  A  cry  of  joy. 
It  is  he.  He  flings  his  arms  round  her  neck.  .  .  .  Oh, 
naughty,  naughty,  good,  darling  boy !  .  .  . 

She  has  opened  her  eyes.     He  is  there,  standing  by  her. 

For  some  time  he  had  been  standing  looking  at  her;  so 
changed  she  was,  with  her  face  both  drawn  and  swollen,  and 
her  mute  suffering  made  her  smile  of  recognition  so  infinitely 
touching:  and  the  silence,  and  her  utter  loneliness.  ...  It 
rent  his  heart.  .  .  . 

She  saw  him.  She  was  not  surprised.  She  smiled  all  that 
she  could  not  say,  a  smile  of  boundless  tenderness.  She  could 
not  hold  out  her  arms  to  him,  nor  utter  a  single  word.  He  flung 
his  arms  round  her  neck  and  kissed  her,  and  she  kissed  him: 
great  tears  were  trickling  down  her  cheeks.  She  said  in  a 
whisper : 

"Wait.  .    .    ." 

He  saw  that  she  could  not  breathe. 

Neither  stirred.  She  stroked  his  head  with  her  hands,  and 
her  tears  went  on  trickling  down  her  cheeks.  He  kissed  her 
hands  and  sobbed,  with  his  face  hidden  in  the  coverlet. 

When  her  attack  had  passed  she  tried  to  speak.  But  she 
could  not  find  words :  she  floundered,  and  he  could  hardly 
understand  her.  But  what  did  it  matter?  They  loved  each 
other,  and  were  together,  and  could  touch  each  other:  that  was 
the  main  thing. — He  asked  indignantly  why  she  was  left  alone. 
She  made  excuses  for  her  nurse : 

"  She  cannot  always  be  here :  she  has  her  work  to  do.   ... " 

In  a  faint,  broken  voice, — she  could  hardly  pronounce  her 
words, — she  made  a  little  hurried  request  about  her  burial. 
She  told  Christophe  to  give  her  love  to  her  two  other  sons  who 
had  forgotten  her.  And  she  sent  a  message  to  Olivier,  know- 
ing his  love  for  Christophe.  She  begged  Christophe  to  tell  him 
that  she  sent  him  her  blessing — (and  then,  timidly,  she  recol- 


468  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

lected  herself,  and  made  use  of  a  more  humble  expression), — 
"her  affectionate  respects.  ..." 

Once  more  she  choked.  He  helped  her  to  sit  up  in  her  bed. 
The  sweat  dripped  down  her  face.  She  forced  herself  to  smile. 
She  told  herself  that  she  had  nothing  more  to  wish  for  in  the 
world,  now  that  she  had  her  son's  hand  clasped  in  hers. 

And  suddenly  Christophe  felt  her  hand  stiffen  in  his.  Louisa 
opened  her  lips.  She  looked  at  her  son  with  infinite  tender- 
ness:— so  the  end  came. 


Ill 

IN  the  evening  of  the  same  day  Olivier  arrived.  He  had 
been  unable  to  bear  the  thought  of  leaving  Christophe  alone  in 
those  tragic  hours  of  which  he  had  had  only  too  much  experi- 
ence. He  was  fearful  also  of  the  risks  his  friend  was  running  in 
returning  to  Germany.  He  wanted  to  be  with  him,  to  look  after 
him.  But  he  had  no  money  for  the  journey.  When  he  returned 
from  seeing  Christophe  off  he  made  up  his  mind  to  sell  the  few 
family  jewels  that  he  had  left :  and  as  the  pawnshop  was  closed 
at  that  hour,  and  he  wanted  to  go  by  the  next  train,  he  was 
just  going  out  to  look  for  a  broker's  shop  in  the  neighborhood 
when  he  met  Mooch  on  the  stairs.  When  the  little  Jew  heard 
what  he  was  about  he  was  genuinely  sorry  that  Olivier  had  not 
come  to  him:  he  would  not  let  Olivier  go  to  the  broker's,  and 
made  him  accept  the  necessary  money  from  himself.  He  was 
really  hurt  to  think  that  Olivier  had  pawned  his  watch  and  sold 
his  books  to  pay  Christophe's  fare,  when  he  would  have  been 
only  too  glad  to  help  them.  In  his  zeal  for  doing  them  a  service 
he  even  proposed  to  accompany  Olivier  to  Christophe's  home, 
and  Olivier  had  great  difficulty  in  dissuading  him. 

Olivier's  arrival  was  a  great  boon  to  Christophe.  He  had 
spent  the  day,  prostrated  with  grief,  alone  by  his  mother's  body. 
The  nurse  had  come,  performed  certain  offices,  and  then  had 
gone  away  and  had  never  come  back.  The  hours  had  passed 


THE  HOUSE  469 

in  the  stillness  of  death.  Christophe  sat  there,  as  still  as  the 
body:  he  never  took  his  eyes  from  his  mother's  face:  he  did 
not  weep,  he  did  not  think,  he  was  himself  as  one  dead. — 
Olivier's  wonderful  act  of  friendship  brought  him  back  to  tears 
and  life. 

"  Oetrosl!    E»  i«t  der  Schmerzen  werth  dies  kaben. 

So  lang  .  .  .  mit  uns  ein  treues  Auge  weint." 

("  Courage!  Life  is  worth  all  its  suffering  as  long  as  there  are  faithful 
friends  to  weep  with  us.") 

They  clasped  each  other  in  a  long  embrace,  and  then  sat 
by  the  dead  woman's  side  and  talked  in  whispers.  Night  had 
fallen.  Christophe,  with  his  arms  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  told 
random  tales  of  his  childhood's  memories,  in  which  his  mother's 
image  ever  recurred.  He  would  pause  every  now  and  then  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  then  go  on  again,  until  there  came  a  pause 
when  he  stopped  altogether,  and  his  face  dropped  into  his 
hands:  he  was  utterly  worn  out:  and  when  Olivier  went  up  to 
him,  he  saw  that  he  was  asleep.  Then  he  kept  watch  alone. 
And  presently  he,  too,  was  overcome  by  sleep,  with  his  head 
leaning  against  the  back  of  the  bed.  There  was  a  soft  smile 
on  Louisa's  face,  and  she  seemed  happy  to  be  watching  over  her 
two  children. 

In  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  they  were  awakened  by 
a  knocking  at  the  door.  Christophe  opened  it.  It  was  a 
neighbor,  a  joiner,  who  had  come  to  warn  Christophe  that  his 
presence  in  the  town  had  been  denounced,  and  that  he  must  go, 
if  he  did  not  wish  to  be  arrested.  Christophe  refused  to  fly:  he 
would  not  leave  his  mother  before  he  had  taken  her  to  her  last 
resting-place.  But  Olivier  begged  him  to  go,  and  promised  that 
he  would  faithfully  watch  over  her  in  his  stead:  he  induced 
him  to  leave  the  house :  and,  to  make  sure  of  his  not  going  back 
on  his  decision,  went  with  him  to  the  station.  Christophe  re- 
fused point-blank  to  go  without  having  a  sight  of  the  great 
river,  by  which  he  had  spent  his  childhood,  the  mighty  echo  of 


470  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

which  was  preserved  for  ever  within  his  soul  as  in  a  sea-shell. 
Though  it  was  dangerous  for  him  to  he  seen  in  the  town,  yet 
for  his  whim  he  disregarded  it.  They  walked  along  the  steep 
bank  of  the  Rhine,  which  was  rushing  along  in  its  mighty  peace, 
between  its  low  banks,  on  to  its  mysterious  death  in  the  sands  of 
the  North.  A  great  iron  bridge,  looming  in  the  mist,  plunged 
its  two  arches,  like  the  halves  of  the  wheels  of  a  colossal  chariot, 
into  the  gray  waters.  In  the  distance,  fading  into  the  mist, 
were  ships  sailing  through  the  meadows  along  the  river's  wind- 
ings. It  was  like  a  dream,  and  Christophe  was  lost  in  it. 
Olivier  brought  him  back  to  his  senses,  and,  taking  his  arm, 
led  him  back  to  the  station.  Christophe  submitted :  he  was  like 
a  man  walking  in  his  sleep.  Olivier  put  him  into  the  train  as  it 
was  just  starting,  and  they  arranged  to  meet  next  day  at  the 
first  French  station,  so  that  Christophe  should  not  have  to  go 
back  to  Paris  alone. 

The  train  went,  and  Olivier  returned  to  the  house,  where 
he  found  two  policemen  stationed  at  the  door,  waiting  for  Chris- 
tophe to  come  back.  They  took  Olivier  for  him,  and  Olivier 
did  not  hurry  to  explain  a  mistake  so  favorable  to  Christophe's 
chances  of  escape.  On  the  other  hand,  the  police  were  not  in 
the  least  discomfited  by  their  blunder,  and  showed  no  great 
zest  in  pursuing  the  fugitive,  and  Olivier  had  an  inkling  that 
at  bottom  they  were  not  at  all  sorry  that  Christophe  had  gone. 

Olivier  stayed  until  the  next  morning,  when  Louisa  was 
buried.  Christophe's  brother,  Rodolphe,  the  business  man,  came 
by  one  train  and  left  by  the  next.  That  important  personage 
followed  the  funeral  very  correctly,  and  went  immediately  it 
was  over,  without  addressing  a  single  word  to  Olivier,  either  to 
ask  him  for  news  of  his  brother  or  to  thank  him  for  what  he  had 
done  for  their  mother.  Olivier  spent  a  few  hours  more  in  the 
town,  where  he  did  not  know  a  soul,  though  it  was  peopled 
for  him  with  so  many  familiar  shadpws:  the  boy  Christophe, 
those  whom  he  had  loved,  and  those  who  had  made  him  suffer; 
— and  dear  Antoinette.  .  .  .  What  was  there  left  of  all  those 
human  beings,  who  had  lived  in  the  town,  the  family  of  the 


THE  HOUSE  471 

Kraffts,  that  now  had  ceased  to  be?    Only  the  love  for  them 
that  lived  in  the  heart  of  a  stranger. 

In  the  afternoon  Olivier  met  Christophe  at  the  frontier  sta- 
tion as  they  had  arranged.  It  was  a  village  nestling  among 
wooded  hills.  Instead  of  waiting  for  the  next  train  to  Paris, 
they  decided  to  go  part  of  the  way  on  foot,  as  far  as  the 
nearest  town.  They  wanted  to  be  alone.  They  set  out  through 
the  silent  woods,  through  which  from  a  distance  there  resounded 
the  dull  thud  of  an  ax.  They  reached  a  clearing  at  the  top 
of  a  hill.  Below  them,  in  a  narrow  valley,  in  German  territory, 
there  lay  the  red  roof  of  a  forester's  house,  and  a  little  meadow 
like  a  green  lake  amid  the  trees.  All  around  there  stretched  the 
dark-blue  sea  of  the  forest  wrapped  in  cloud.  Mists  hovered 
and  drifted  among  the  branches  of  the  pines.  A  transparent 
veil  softened  the  lines  and  blurred  the  colors  of  the  trees.  All 
was  still.  Neither  footsteps  nor  voices  were  to  be  heard.  A 
few  drops  of  rain  rang  out  on  the  golden  copper  leaves  of  the 
beeches,  which  had  turned  to  autumn  tints.  A  little  stream  ran 
tinkling  over  the  stones.  Christophe  and  Olivier  stood  still  and 
did  not  stir.  Each  was  dreaming  of  those  whom  he  had  lost. 
Olivier  was  thinking : 

"Antoinette,  where  are  you?" 

And  Christophe: 

"  What  is  success  to  me,  now  that  she  is  dead  ?  " 

But  each  heard  the  comforting  words  of  the  dead : 

"  Beloved,  weep  not  for  us.  Think  not  of  us.  Think  of 
Him.  .  .  .» 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  each  ceased  to  feel  his  own 
sorrow,  and  was  conscious  only  of  that  of  his  friend.  They 
clasped  their  hands.  In  both  there  was  sad  serenity.  Gently, 
while  no  wind  stirred,  the  misty  veil  was  raised:  the  blue  sky 
shone  forth  again.  The  melting  sweetness  of  the  earth  after 
rain.  ...  So  near  to  us,  so  tender !  .  .  .  The  earth  takes 
us  in  her  arms,  clasps  us  to  her  bosom  with  a  lovely  loving 
smile,  and  says  to  us : 


472  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

"Rest.     All  is  well.  .    .    ." 

The  ache  in  Christophe's  heart  was  gone.  He  was  like  a 
little  child.  For  two  days  he  had  been  living  wholly  in  the 
memory  of  his  mother,  the  atmosphere  of  her  soul :  he  had  lived 
over  again  her  humble  life,  with  its  days  one  like  unto  another, 
solitary,  all  spent  in  the  silence  of  the  childless  house,  in  the 
thought  of  the  children  who  had  left  her :  the  poor  old  woman, 
infirm  but  valiant  in  her  tranquil  faith,  her  sweetness  of  temper, 
her  smiling  resignation,  her  complete  lack  of  selfishness.  .  .  . 
And  Christophe  thought  also  of  all  the  humble  creatures  he  had 
known.  How  near  to  them  he  felt  in  that  moment !  After  all 
the  years  of  exhausting  struggle  in  the  burning  heat  of  Paris, 
where  ideas  and  men  jostle  in  the  whirl  of  confusion,  after 
those  tragic  days  when  there  had  passed  over  them  the  wind  of 
the  madness  which  hurls  the  nations,  cozened  by  their  own  hal- 
lucinations, murderously  against  each  other,  Christophe  felt  ut- 
terly weary  of  the  fevered,  sterile  world,  the  conflict  between 
egoisms  and  ideas,  the  little  groups  of  human  beings  deeming 
themselves  above  humanity,  the  ambitious,  the  thinkers,  the 
artists  who  think  themselves  the  brain  of  the  world,  and  are 
no  more  than  a  haunting  evil  dream.  And  all  his  love  went  out 
to  those  thousands  of  simple  souls,  of  every  nation,  whose  lives 
burn  away  in  silence,  pure  flames  of  kindness,  faith,  and  sacri- 
fice,— the  heart  of  the  world. 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  "I  know  you;  once  more  I  have  come 
to  you;  you  are  blood  of  my  blood;  you  are  mine.  Like  the 
prodigal  son,  I  left  you  to  pursue  the  shadows  that  passed  by 
the  wayside.  But  I  have  come  back  to  you;  give  me  welcome. 
We  are  one ;  one  life  is  ours,  both  the  living  and  the  dead ;  where 
I  am  there  are  you  also.  Now  I  bear  you  in  my  soul,  0  mother, 
who  bore  me.  You,  too,  Gottfried,  and  you  Schulz,  and  Sabine, 
and  Antoinette,  you  are  all  in  me,  part  of  me,  mine.  You  are 
my  riches,  my  joy.  We  will  take  the  road  together.  I  will 
never  more  leave  you.  I  will  be  your  voice.  We  will  join 
forces :  so  we  shall  attain  the  goal." 

A  ray  of  sunlight  shot  through  the  dripping  branches  of  the 


THE  HOUSE  473 

trees.  From  the  little  field  down  below  there  came  up  the 
voices  of  children  singing  an  Old  German  folk-song,  frank  and 
moving:  the  singers  were  three  little  girls  dancing  round  the 
house :  and  from  afar  the  west  wind  brought  the  chiming  of  the 
bells  of  France,  like  a  perfume  of  roses.  .  .  . 

"  0  peace,  Divine  harmony,  serene  music  of  the  soul  set  free, 
wherein  are  mingled  joy  and  sorrow,  death  and  life,  the  nations 
at  war,  and  the  nations  in  brotherhood.  I  love  you,  I  long  for 
you,  I  shall  win  you.  ..." 

The  night  drew  down  her  veil.  Starting  from  his  dream, 
Christophe  saw  the  faithful  face  of  his  friend  by  his  side.  He 
smiled  at  him  and  embraced  him.  Then  they  walked  on  through 
the  forest  in  silence :  and  Christophe  showed  Olivier  the  way. 

"  Taciti,  soli  e  sensa  compagnia, 
N'andavan  I'  un  dinnami,  e  V  altro  dopo, 
Come  i  frati  minor  vanno  per  via.  ..." 


ROMAIN  HOLLAND'S 
JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

DAWN       •       MORNING       •       YOUTH       •       REVOLT 

Translated   by   GILBERT   CANNAN. 


600  pp.    $1.50  net;  by  mail,  $1.62. 

It  commences  with  vivid  episodes  of  this  musician's  child- 
hood, his  fears,  fancies,  and  troubles,  and  his  almost  uncanny 
musical  sense.  He  plays  before  the  Grand  Duke  at  seven, 
but  he  is  destined  for  greater  things.  An  idol  of  the  hour,  in 
some  ways  suggesting  Richard  Strauss,  tries  in  vain  to  wreck 
his  faith  in  his  career.  Early  love  episodes  follow,  and  at  the 
close  the  hero,  like  Wagner,  has  to  fly,  a  hopeful  exile. 

'"  Hats  off,  gentlemen— a  genius.'  .  .  .  Has  the  time  come  for  the  zoth 
century  to  uncover  before  a  master  work?  A  book  as  big,  as  elemental,  as 
original  as  though  the  art  of  fiction  began  to-day."— Springfield  Republican. 
(Entire  notice  on  application.) 

"  The  most  momentous  novel  that  has  come  to  us  from  France,  or  from  any 
other  European  country,  in  a  decade.  .  .  .  Highly  commendable  and 
effective  translation  .  .  .  the  story  moves  at  a  rapid  pace.  It  never 
lags."— E.  f.  Edgell  in  Boston  Transcript. 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

THE  MARKET-PLACE 
ANTOINETTE         •         THE  HOUSE 

473  PP-     $i-So  net;  by  mail,  $1.62. 

A  writer  in  the  London  Daily  Mail  comments  on  the 
French  volumes  here  translated  as  follows : — "  In  '  The  Mar- 
ket-Place,' we  are  with  the  hero  in  his  attempt  to  earn  his 
living  and  to  conquer  Paris.  The  author  introduces  us  to 
the  numberless  '  society '  circles  in  Paris  and  all  the  cliques 
of  so-called  musicians  in  pages  of  superb  and  bitter  irony 
and  poetic  fire.  Christophe  becomes  famous.  In  the  next 
volume,  Antoinette  is  the  sister  of  Christophe's  great  friend, 
Olivier.  She  loves  Christophe.  .  .  .  This,  the  best  volume 
of  the  series,  is  a  flawless  gem.  '  The  House '  introduces  us 
to  the  friends  and  enemies  of  the  young  musician.  They 
gravitate  around  Christophe  and  Olivier,  amid  the  noisy  and 
enigmatic  whirl  of  Parisian  life." 

It  is  worth  adding  that  toward  the  close  of  this  book  a 
war-cloud  appears  between  France  and  Germany.  Chris- 
tophe, with  Olivier,  visits  his  mother  and  his  Fatherland. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  JOSEPH  VANCE 

A  touching  story,  yet  full  of  humor,  of  life-long  love  and 
heroic  sacrifice.  While  the  scene  is  mostly  in  and  near  the 
London  of  t'he  fifties,  there  are  some  telling  glimpses  of 
Italy,  where  the  author  lives  much  of  the  time  ($175). 

"The  book  of  the  last  decade;  the  best  thing  in  fiction  since  Mr. 
Meredith  and  Mr.  Hard);;  must  take  its  place  as  the  first  great  English 
novel  that  has  appeared  in  the  twentieth  century." — LEWIS  MELVILLE  in 
New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

"  If  the  reader  likes  both  '  David  Copperfield  '  and  '  Peter  Ibbetson,' 
he  can  find  the  two  books  in  this  one." — The  Independent. 

WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  ALICE-FOR-SHORT 

This  might  paradoxically  be  called  a  genial  ghost-and- 
murder  story,  yet  humor  and  humanity  again  dominate,  and 
the  most  striking  element  is  the  touching  love  story  of  an 
unsuccessful  man.  The  reappearance  in  Nineteenth  Century 
London  of  the  long-buried  past,  and  a  remarkable  case  of 
suspended  memory,  give  the  dramatic  background  ($1.75). 

"  Really  worth  reading  and  praising  .  .  .  will  be  hailed  as  a  master- 
piece. If  any  writer  of  the  present  era  is  read  a  half  century  hence, 
a  quarter  century,  or  even  a  decade,  that  writer  is  William  De 
Morgan." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  It  is  the  Victorian  age  itself  that  speaks  in  those  rich,  interesting, 
over-crowded  books.  .  .  .  Will  be  remembered  as  Dickens'  novels  are 
remembered. " — Springfield  Republican. 

WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  SOMEHOW  GOOD 

The  purpose  and  feeling  of  this  novel  are  intense,  yet  it  is 
all  mellowed  by  humor,  and  it  contains  perhaps  the  author's 
freshest  and  most  sympathetic  story  of  young  love.  Through- 
out its  pages  the  "  God  be  praised  evil  has  turned  to  good  " 
of  the  old  Major  rings  like  a  trumpet  call  of  hope.  This 
story  of  to-day  tells  of  a  triumph  of  courage  and  devotion 
($i-75). 

"  A  book  as  sound,  as  sweet,  as  wholesome,  as  wise,  as  any  in  the 
range  of  fiction." — The  Nation. 

"  Our  older  novelists  (Dickens  and  Thackeray)  will  have  to  look  to 
their  laurels,  for  the  new  one  is  fast  proving  himself  their  equal.  A 
higher  quality  of  enjoyment  than  is  derivable  from  the  work  of  any 
other  novelist  now  living  and  active  in  either  England  or  America." — 
The  Dial. 

HENRY     HOLT    AND     COMPANY 

34  WEST  3 3D  STREET  (vii' xo)  NEW  YORK 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  IT  NEVER  CAN  HAPPEN  AGAIN 

This  novel  turns  on  a  strange  marital  complication,  and  is 
notable  for  two  remarkable  women  characters,  the  pathetic 
girl  Lizarann  and  the  beautiful  Judith  Arkroyd,  with  her 
stage  ambitions.  Lizarann's  father,  Blind  Jim,  is  very  ap- 
pealingly  drawn,  and  shows  rare  courage  and  devotion  despite 
cruel  handicaps.  There  are  strong  dramatic  episodes,  and 
the  author's  inevitable  humor  and  optimism  ($1.75). 

"  De  Morgan  at  his  very  best,  and  how  much  better  his  best  is 
than  the  work  of  any  novelist  of  the  past  thirty  years." — Independent. 

"  There  has  been  nothing  at  all  like  it  in  our  day.  The  best  of 
our  contemporary  novelists  ...  do  not  so  come  home  to  our  business 
and  our  bosoms  .  .  .  his  method  ...  is  very  different  in  most 
important  respects  from  that  of  Dickens.  He  is  far  less  the  showman, 
the  dashing  prestidigitator  .  .  .  more  like  Thackeray  .  .  .  precisely 
what  the  most  '  modern  '  novelists  are  striving  for — for  the  most  part 
in  vain  .  .  .  most  enchanting  ...  infinitely  lovable  and  pathetic." — 
The  Nation. 

"  Another  long  delightful  voyage  with  the  best  English  company  .  .  . 
from  Dukes  to  blind  beggars  .  .  .  you  could  make  out  a  very  good 
case  for  handsome  Judith  Arkroyd  as  an  up-to-date  Ethel  Newcome 
.  .  .  the  stuff  that  tears  in  hardened  and  careless  hearts  are  made 
of  ...  singularly  perceiving,  mellow,  wise,  charitable,  humorous 
...  a  plot  as  well  defined  as  if  it  were  a  French  farce." — The  Times 
Saturday  Review. 

"  The  characters  of  Blind  Jim  and  Lizarann  are  wonderful — worthy 
of  Dickens  at  his  best." — Professor  WILLIAM  LYON  PHELVS,  of  Yale, 
author  of  "  Essays  on  Modern  Novelists." 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

A  dramatic  story  of  England  in  the  time  of  the  Restoration. 
It  commences  with  a  fatal  duel,  and  shows  a  new  phase  of  its 
remarkable  author.  The  movement  is  fairly  rapid,  and  the 
narrative  absorbing,  with  occasional  glints  of  humor  ($1.75). 


»%  A  thirty-two  page  illustrated  leaflet  about  Mr.   De  Morgan,  with 
complete  reviews  of  his  first  four  books,  sent  on  request. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Just  Published 
TWO    NOTEWORTHY    NEW   NOVELS 

H.  RIDER  HAGGARD'S 
THE  MAHATMA  AND  THE  HARE 

A  Dream  Story.  With  12  full-page  illustrations  by  H.  M. 
BROCK  and  W.  T.  HORTON.  I2mo.  $1.00  net;  by  mail, 
$1.10. 

A  fantasy  dealing  with  the  rights  of  animals.  Unusual 
quality  and  feeling  lift  this  story,  of  a  hare  and  his  life  in 
the  hunting  preserve,  into  the  company  of  the  very  best 
animal  stories. 


GARDNER  HUNTING'S 
A  HAND  IN  THE  GAME 

With  frontispiece  in  color  by  J.   N.   EDMOND  MARCHAND. 
$1.25  net;  by  mail,  $1.35. 

An  American  love  and  adventure  story  of  to-day.  The 
author  makes  the  reader  see  his  heroine's  beauty  and  admire 
her  spirit,  while  he  gains  hearty  sympathy  for  the  brave 
though  modest  hero. 

An  April  snowball  breaks  a  way  for  this  man  into  a  lovely 
girl's  life  and  makes  opportunity  for  him  to  fight  for  her 
against  an  enemy  who  holds  a  strangely  cruel  weapon.  A 
blind  mystery  and  the  deadly  hatred  of  a  cornered  foe  make 
the  struggle  a  pitiless  one,  but  even  in  deadliest  peril,  the 
hero  scorns  to  go  armed.  Finally  love  plays  the  lover  an 
amazing  trick  which  turns  bitter  into  sweet. 


Books  in  Which  to  Renew  One's  Youth 


INEZ  HAYNES  GILLMORE'S  PHOEBE  AND  ERNEST 

With  30  illustrations  by  R.  F.  SCHABELITZ.     $1.50. 

Phoebe  and  Ernest  Martin,  who  lately  created  such  en- 
thusiasm among  readers  of  the  American  Magazine,  here 
appear  with  new  incidents  which  make  this  book  a  complete 
chronicle  of  the  typical  American  brother  and  sister  of  high 
school  age. 

Parents  will  recognize  themselves  in  the  story,  and  laugh 
understandingly  with,  and  sometimes  at,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin 
and  their  children. 

Youths  and  maidens  will  understand  Phoebe  and  Ernest's 
experiences  and  problems. 

"Attracted  delighted  attention  in  the  course  of  its  serial  publication. 
Sentiment  and  humor  are  deftly  mingled  in  this  clever  book."— ^V.  Y, 
Tribune. 


JOHN  MATTER'S  ONCE 

I2mo.     $1.20  net ;  by  mail,  $1.30. 

An  idyl  of  boy  and  girl  life  in  a  small  town  in  the  Middle 
West,  intended  for  grown-ups  as  a  guide  to  pleasant  recollec- 
tions. 

"  If  you  would  betaken  back  to  your  childhood  days  read  this  charm- 
ing story  of  the  happy  larks  of  these  real  children."— Chicago  Evening 
Post. 

"  Pleasant  reminders  of  childish  incidents  which  will  awaken  memories 
in  all  his  readers.  .  .  .  His  youngsters  have  individuality  of  their 
ovrn."—Nfiv  York  Sun. 


ALGERNON  BLACKWELL'S  THE  EDUCATION  OF 
UNCLE  PAUL 

By  the  author  of  "  JOHN  SILENCE."    $1.50. 

Boston  Transcript  :  "Quite  the  most  unusual  book  of  the  year.  .  .  . 
Such  an  outline  is  powerless  to  suggest  the  charm  of  the  book.  The  in- 
tercourse of  children,  animals  and  uncle  is  compounded  of  humor, 
affection,  the  subtlest  of  observation  and  the  most  convincing  fan- 
tasy. .  .  .  Nixie  is  so  utterly  captivating  .  .  .  gratefully  the  reader 
treads  the  mysterious  ways  with  them  .  .  .  many  a  subtle  experience,  a 
riot  of  imagination  .  .  .  the  beauty  of  conception  and  the  quality  of 
Its  exquisite  execution."  (Entire  notice  on  application  to  the  publishers.) 


HENRY     HOLT    AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


HENRY  WILLIAMS'S  THE  UNITED  STATES  NAVY 

A  Handbook. 
By  HENRY  WILLIAMS,  Naval  Constructor,  U.  S.  Navy.     With 

32  full-page  illustrations  and  a  number  in  the  text.   ismo. 

$1.50  net;  by  mail,  $1.67. 

This  is  a  neat,  crisp,  matter-of-fact  account  of  our  Navy, 
with  an  occasional  illuminating  anecdote  of  famous  court- 
martials  and  such.  It  has  been  passed  by  high  authorities 
and  its  publication  officially  sanctioned.  The  Contents  in- 
cludes:  Naval  History — The  Navy's  Organization — The 
Navy's  Personnel — Man-of-War  in  Commission— Classes  of 
Ships  in  the  Navy — Description— High  Explosives;  Tor- 
pedoes; Mines;  Aeroplanes — Designing  and  Building  a  War- 
ship; Dry  Docks — The  National  Defense. 

THOMAS   LEAMING'S 
A  PHILADELPHIA  LAWYER  IN  THE  LONDON  COURTS 

Illustrated  by  the  Author.     8vo.     $2.00  net;  by  mail,  $2.15. 

(Circular  on  application.) 

A  trained  observer's  graphic  description  of  the  English 
Law  Courts,  of  their  ancient  customs  yet  up-to-date  methods; 
of  the  lives  and  activities  of  the  modern  barrister  and  solicitor 
— the  "JK.  C.,"  the  "  Junior,"  the  "  Devil  " — and  of  the  elab- 
orate etiquette,  perpetuated  by  the  Inns  of  Court,  which  still 
inflexibly  rules  them,  despite  the  tendencies  of  the  times  and 
growth  of  socialism. 

Nation :— "  The  style  of  narrative,  the  conciseness  of  statement,  and 
the  wealth  of  allusion  make  this  book  one  which  certainly  the  lawyer, 
and  probably  many  laymen,  will  wish  to  finish  at  one  sitting,  and  not 
hurriedly.  .  .  .  We  hope  to  see  the  author  appear  again,  and  as  a 
Philadelphia  Lawyer  at  Home." 

Bookman :— "  This  quiet  recital  of  facts  ought  of  itself  to  create  a 
revolution  in  this  country.  .  .  .  He  disclaims  any  intention  of  entering 
upon  odious  comparisons.  .  .  .  When  the  Bar  of  America  is  aroused  to 
the  necessity  of  reform  it  will  find  these  observations  ...  a  mine  of 
well-digested  information  and  helpful  suggestions." 

Dial:—"  His  interesting  account  of  the  trial  and  conviction  of  Madar 
La  Dhingra." 

New  York  Evening-  Sun  :—"  A  suitable  mixture  of  anecdote  and  gen- 
eralization to  give  the  reader  a  pleasant  and  clear  idea  of  English  courts, 
their  ways  and  plan.  .  .  .  One  of  the  most  valuable  chapters  relates  to 
the  discipline  or  the  bar." 

Philadelphia  Press:— •"  A  vast  deal  of  useful  and  often  fascinating 
information.  .  .  .  An  eminently  readable  volume,  which,  although  de- 
signed primarily  for  the  lay  reader,  has  already  elicited  hearty  com- 
mendation from  not  a  few  leaders  of  the  profession.  .  .  .  American 
lawyers  are  beginning  to  see  that  much-  may  be  learned  from  modern 
English  practice.  .  .  .  On  the  subject  of  the  ethics  of  the  English  bar 
Mr.  Learning  has  much  to  say  that  is  worth  careful  perusal." 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  34  WKT  330  STREET,  NEW  YORK 


NEW  POPULAR  EDITION,  WITH  APPENDIX 

Containing  tables,  etc.,  of  the  Opera  Season  1908-11. 

"  The  most  complete  and  authoritative  .  .  .  pre-eminently  the  man 
to  write  the  book  .  .  .  full  of  the  spirit  of  discerning  criticism.  .  .  . 
Delightfully  engaging  manner,  with  humor,  allusiveness  and  an  abund- 
ance of  the  personal  note."— Richard  Aldrich  in  New  York  Times  Re- 
view, (Complete  notice  on  application.) 

CHAPTERS  OF  OPERA 

Being  historical  and  critical  observations  and  records  con- 
cerning the  Lyric  Drama  in  New  York  from  its 
earliest  days  down  to  the  present  time. 

By  HKNRY  EDWARD  KREHBIEL,  musical  critic  of  the  New  York 
Tribune,  author  of  "  Music  and  Manners  in  the  Classical 
Period,"  "  Studies  in  the  Wagnerian  Drama,"  "  How  to 
Listen  to  Music,"  etc.  With  over  70  portraits  and  pictures 
of  Opera  Houses.  450  pp.  lamo.  $2.50  net;  by  mail, 
$2.68.  Illustrated  circular  on  application. 

This  is  perhaps  Mr.  Krehbiel's  most  important  book.  The 
first  seven  chapters  deal  with  the  earliest  operatic  perform- 
ances in  New  York.  Then  follows  a  brilliant  account  of  the 
first  quarter-century  of  the  Metropolitan,  1883-1908.  He  tells 
how  Abbey's  first  disastrous  Italian  season  was  followed  by 
seven  seasons  of  German  Opera  under  Leopold  Damrosch 
and  Stanton,  how  this  was  temporarily  eclipsed  by  French 
and  Italian,  and  then  returned  to  dwell  with  them  in  har- 
mony, thanks  to  Walter  Damrosch's  brilliant  crusade, — also 
of  the  burning  of  the  opera  house,  the  vicissitudes  of  the 
American  Opera  Company,  the  coming  and  passing  of  Grau 
and  Conried,  and  finally  the  opening  of  Oscar  Hammerstein's 
Manhattan  Opera  House  and  the  first  two  seasons  therein, 
1906-08. 

"Presented  not  only  in  a  readable  manner  but  without  bias  .  .  . 
extremely  interesting  and  valuable."— Nation. 

"The  illustrations  are  a  true  embellishment  .  .  .  Mr.  Krehbiel's 
style  was  never  more  charming.  It  is  a  delight."— Philip  Hale  in  Boston 
Herald. 

"Invaluable  for  purpose  of  reference  .  .  .  rich  in  critical  passages 
.  .  .all  the  great  singers  of  the  world  have  been  heard  here.  Most  of 
the  great  conductors  have  come  to  our  shores.  .  .  .  Memories  of 
them  which  serve  to  humanize,  as  it  were,  his  analyses  of  their  work." — 
New  York  Tribune. 

***!£  the  reader  will  send  his  name  and  address,  the  publishers  will  send, 
from  time  to  time,  information  regarding  their  new  books. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


SIXTH  EDITION,    ENLARGED    AND    WITH    PORTRAITS 

HALE'S    DRAMATISTS    OF    TO-DAY 

ROSTAND,     HAUPTMANN,     SUDERMANN, 
PINERO,  SHAW,  PHILLIPS,  MAETERLINCK 

By  PROF.   EDWARD    EVERETT    HALE,  JR.,  of  Union  College. 
With  gilt  top,  $1.50  net;  by  mail,  $1.60. 

Since  this  work  first  appeared  in  1905,  Maeterlinck's  SISTER 
BEATRICE,  THE  BLUE  BIRD  and  MARY  MAGDALENE,  Rostand's 
CHANTECLER  and  Pinero's  MID-CHANNEL  and  THE  THUNDER- 
BOLT— among  the  notable  plays  by  some  of  Dr.  Hale's  drama- 
tists—have been  acted  here.  Discussions  of  them  are  added 
to  this  new  edition,  as  are  considerations  of  Bernard  Shaw's 
and  Stephen  Phillips'  latest  plays.  The  author's  papers  on 
Hauptinann  and  Sudermann,  with  slight  additions,  with  his 
"Note  on  Standards  of  Criticism,"  "Our  Idea  of  Tragedy," 
and  an  appendix  of  all  the  plays  of  each  author,  with  dates  of 
their  first  performance  or  publication,  complete  the  volume. 

Bookman  :  "  He  writes  in  a  pleasant,  free-and-easy  way.  .  .  .  He 
accepts  things  chiefly  at  their  face  value,  but  he  describes  them  so  ac- 
curately and  agreeably  that  he  recalls  vividly  to  mind  the  plays  we 
have  seen  and  the  pleasure  we  have  found  in  them." 

New  York  Evening  Post :  "  It  is  not  often  nowadays  that  a  theatrical 
b  iok  can  be  met  with  so  free  from  gush  and  mere  eulogy,  or  so  weighted 
by  common  sense  ...  an  excellent  chronological  appendix  and  full 
index  .  .  .  uncommonly  useful  for  reference." 

Dial:  "  Noteworthy  example  of  literary  criticism  in  one  of  the  most 
interesting  of  literary  fields.  .  .  .  Provides  a  varied  menu  of  the 
most  interesting  character.  .  .  .  Prof.  Hale  establishes  confidential 
relations  with  the  reader  from  the  start.  .  .  .  Very  definite  opinions, 
clearly  reasoned  and  amply  fortified  by  example.  .  .  .  Well  worth 
reading  a  second  time." 

New  York  Tribune:    "Both  instructive  and  entertaining." 

Brooklyn  Eagle:  "A  dramatic  critic  who  is  not  just  'busting'  him- 
self with  Titanic  intellectualities,  but  who  is  a  readable  dramatic  critic. 
.  .  .  Mr.  Hale  is  a  modest  and  sensible,  as  well  as  an  acute  and  sound 
critic.  .  .  .  Most  people  will  be  surprised  and  delighted  with  Mr. 
Hale's  simplicity,  perspicuity  and  ingenuousness." 

The  Theatre:  "  A  pleasing  lightness  of  touch.  .  .  .  Very  read- 
able book." 


HENRY     HOLT    AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Novl364 
Nov20  6  4' 


Book  Slip-25m-7,'61(Cl437s4)4280 


A      nn  •  ' " ' 


L  005  8135  207  0 


College 
Library 

PQ 


R6UJ3E 
ser.2 
cop.  2 


